Blame
by HelenLouise
Summary: A fatal accident has consequences more far-reaching than anyone could ever imagine. Warning! Contains the death of a Hardy family member. Also contains scenes of intense psychological and mental torture. STORY FINALLY COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

Synopsis: A fatal accident has consequences more far-reaching that anyone could ever imagine.

Rated 'T' for later chapters.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters from the Hardy Boys, I do own the ones I created.

**WARNING! CONTAINS THE DEATH OF A HARDY FAMILY MEMBER.**

Author's note: Hello all. This is my first attempt at writing Hardy Boys fan fiction and I hope you all enjoy it. It has been a long time since I read the books and so I hope I do the characters justice. In this fic, Frank is eighteen and Joe is seventeen.

Blame

By

Helen Louise

_There's been an accident. _Were there ever any more terrifying words that a person had to hear when they picked up the phone?

Fenton Hardy didn't think so. Though it wasn't the first time that he had been the recipient of a 'bad news' phone call – and he was certain it wouldn't be the last – this one chilled him to his very core.

His chosen career – the one that both of his sons were eagerly following him into – was fraught with danger. But, nine times out of ten, he could see that danger coming; could anticipate the potential for bad news.

But this time it was different. This time, he knew that there was a man out there with a grudge against him – and, by association, his family. This time he had taken every conceivable precaution to keep those he held most dear to him safe. But it hadn't been enough.

This time it had involved his wife, Laura and his youngest son, Joe.

Almost unconsciously, he pressed his foot down even harder on the gas pedal. He was already way above the legal speed limit, but he didn't care. The phone call had deemed that he get there urgently.

* * *

Frank Hardy sat white-faced and silent next to his dad and tried not to give in to the fear that was threatening to consume him.

He had been in his room, scouring the Internet for information on the recently escaped felon who had threatened severe revenge against his father – hoping to find some possible clue to his whereabouts – when he had heard the phone ring.

Then his father's voice had hollered up the stairs to him: _There's been an accident._ The rest had been something of a blur.

His eyes flickered toward the speedometer of his dad's sedan and they widened momentarily. Fenton Hardy was a Private Investigator, not a cop – and he was in serious violation of some traffic laws. Though most of the Bayport cops knew Fenton by reputation, they couldn't afford to stop long enough even to explain why they were in such a hurry – his urgency had easily transmitted itself to Frank.

Then his senses registered the sound of sirens and he inwardly cursed – as though his own thoughts had pre-empted this unfortunate turn of his events. He felt the car slow as his dad eased off the gas – and then could only watch uncomprehendingly as a police motorcycle peeled around a corner and took up position directly in front of the sedan. It made no effort to slow down, no attempt to pull them over – and Frank saw his dad smile grimly as he pressed down even harder on the gas.

Inwardly, Frank shivered. He could see what was happening: the Chief of Police was a personal friend of the Hardys and he had obviously arranged for this motorcyclist to clear the worst of the traffic as they neared the more congested streets surrounding Bayport Memorial Hospital.

While he was immeasurably grateful that there was no longer any fear of them being pulled over – and that they wouldn't be slowed by any inconvenient red lights – he couldn't help but fearfully wonder: how bad was it that Police Chief Ezra Collig felt the need to send them an Outrider?

* * *

Fenton shared his son's concerns but he, too, never spoke them aloud. The voice on the phone had belonged to Con Riley – another of Bayport's finest that he considered to be a good friend – but the details had been almost non-existent.

His wife and his youngest son, Joe, had been involved in a car accident – and he needed to get there pronto. No further information had been offered and Fenton didn't waste any time in fishing for details. He'd yelled for Frank and then they were on their way.

Now he focused his gaze on the flashing lights that guided him unerringly through the steadily increasing traffic – and his fear gradually began to build.

A long time ago, Graham Houghton had sworn revenge against him. And now, Graham Houghton was on the run. Though Ezra had tried to assure him that it would be foolish for the escapee to return directly to Bayport, Fenton had put his family on full alert.

Houghton was an insanely dangerous man and, foolish or not, Fenton knew that he _would _come back. He was as single-minded as he was psychotic – and he had promised retribution.

Never one to take such threats lightly, Fenton had instantly laid down some ground rules – and they would not be broken until Houghton was back where he belonged: None of them – not even him – would ever be left alone; not at home and certainly not when away from that relative security. They had a wide enough circle of friends to make that rule easy enough to adhere to. Sometimes, they didn't even need to rely upon those friends to help.

Like today.

Today, it had only been grocery shopping – and so Joe had accompanied his mom on her trip to the store. And that was as much as Fenton knew. That and the fact that _there had been an accident._

Details notwithstanding, Fenton knew that Houghton was a part of this – that the madman was somehow responsible for what had happened to his wife and son. He inwardly cursed. He should have done more to protect them – even as a small part of him tried to reconcile to the fact that he had done everything he could.

Then Bayport Memorial loomed large in his vision – and all coherent thought was lost.

* * *

Frank braced his hand against the dashboard as his father screeched the sedan to a halt – parking both haphazardly and illegally. But not even the cop, who had stopped immediately in front of them, voiced any protest.

Frank, too, had been thinking about Graham Houghton. His dad had drilled the threat into both him and Joe – they knew not to take the unusual ground rules lightly. He was wondering how Joe had let his guard down sufficiently to allow this to happen.

The next moment, he was mentally kicking himself. There was no evidence that Joe had done anything wrong; no evidence that Houghton was even involved; no evidence that this – whatever _this_ was – was anything more than an accident.

At least, not yet.

And Frank was mildly disgusted that he had let the panic kick his normally unflappable logic into touch. It was not a very Frank Hardy way to behave.

Thrusting all speculation aside, he followed his father through the ER doors and into the hub of Bayport Memorial.

* * *

The first thing that registered, to both of them, was the fact that Ezra Collig was there. The Chief of Police straightened as he saw them and then tugged self-consciously at his uniform jacket.

Frank also noticed that Con was there – someone whom he could more easily relate to – but the younger cop could only stare down at his shoes.

"Ezra…" The word that Fenton gasped out was a simple, desperate plea.

"Fenton…" The seasoned Police Chief had delivered bad news a thousand times in his long career, but it had never been as hard as this. "Fenton, I'm so sorry…"

Frank felt as though all of the breath had been punched from his body – and he could only watch as his dad turned an alarming shade of grey.

"Joe?" Fenton whispered the inevitable question, even whilst hardly daring to ask. And when Collig couldn't quite meet his eyes, he knew. _"Laura!"_

Frank's legs gave way then and he would have fallen, if it had not been for the sudden support of a man who had appeared seemingly out of nowhere.

"My mom?" His brown eyes pleaded with the man who now held him – and then his heart shattered when Con Riley simply shook his head. It was all that he needed to confirm his fears – Laura Hardy, his mother, was dead.

"Joe?" He barely dared to whisper the enquiry. He knew that his shattered heart would turn to dust if he had lost his brother as well.

"The doctors are in with him now, Frank." Con said, as gently as he was able – but he was still powerless to prevent the devastation his words caused. He tried to ease the blow: "They said his injuries weren't life-threatening."

Relief cascaded over Frank – overshadowing even the grief that he felt for the loss of his mother. His baby brother was going to be alright and, at last, he had something positive to hold onto.

But he wasn't allowed to hold onto it for long.

"Not 'life-threatening'." Fenton's voice was cold and somehow hollow. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Even Frank shrank away from that tone – so it was no surprise when Con did the same.

"Um… Mr. Hardy… Sir…" The cop eventually stuttered out. "They didn't tell us too much, but… They said something about cuts and bruises… Abrasions… Maybe a mild concussion…"

Fenton and Frank exchanged glances at that – and a silent question was passed between them: How was it that Joe had got away so relatively unscathed from a crash that had killed his mother?

It was as though Ezra Collig had read the silent communicate – as he was the one who answered the unspoken question:

"I'm so sorry, Fenton," he said. "But it looks like Laura wasn't wearing a seatbelt."

"That's impossible!" Fenton yelled, even as he heard Frank's shouted denial of _'No way!'_

The ultimately experienced investigator recovered his composure more quickly and offered a brief apology to Ezra, before going on to explain: "It was a ritual with her – no matter who else was in the car. She'd look around and she'd say…"His voice broke then and he struggled to continue.

"_All buckled up?"_

Frank spoke the words that had so crippled his father – and then added: "She would never drive away…"

"Fenton… Frank…" Ezra Collig looked between the father and son – and then he dropped another bombshell on them: "Laura wasn't driving – Joe was."

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Synopsis: A fatal accident has consequences more far-reaching than anyone could ever imagine. In this fic, Frank is eighteen and Joe is seventeen.

**WARNING! CONTAINS THE DEATH OF A HARDY FAMILY MEMBER.**

Author's note: Wow! What a tremendous response to my first chapter. Thank you so much everybody! The story isn't complete yet, but I do have a pretty clear idea of where I'm going with it and I am a couple of chapters ahead of myself, as far as posting goes. I'll try to update every three/four days but, obviously, Real Life can get in the way sometimes! Thanks again for the outstanding reviews!! I hope you continue to enjoy this.

Blame

Chapter Two

Frank stared at Ezra, at Con, at his dad. Still, none of this made any sense.

Joe was seventeen years old – _seventeen – _and he had held his license for such a short time that he was even more safety conscious than his mother was.

_Had been. _His mind cruelly reminded him of the brutal fact that his mom was dead. He wondered how in hell he was going to break that fact to his brother. And he also wondered how he was supposed to pick up the pieces when the dust settled over all of this.

As always, his eyes sought out his father – seeking guidance and strength. But he had to look quickly away. Even as he did, he squeezed his eyes tightly shut – right now, he did not need to witness his dad descending into complete disintegration.

Frank's heart also ached and though he longed to follow his father's spiral into grief, he was equally determined to focus on the living.

His brother still lived – and he needed him.

Frank's eyes sought out a door – and he found it with frightening speed. The lettering was red and prohibitive, but Frank still felt himself drawn towards it. Joe, he knew, was behind that door. Too much previous experience – too many painful memories – told him that.

Then Con grabbed hold of his arm, stopping him in his tracks. He turned, intending to voice a protest, but the look on the young cop's face stilled his tongue.

Con looked distraught – but determined. "You can't go in there, Frank," he said – and though his tone was firm, it also carried clear reluctance.

"Like hell I can't," Frank growled in response. All he knew was that his brother would need him – nothing else was of any consequence.

"Frank…" Con tried to start an argument that he had no hope of winning – but then rescue came from the most unlikely source.

"Frank." Fenton's voice was ravaged by tears but still held the strength that his son needed to hear. "Son, we need to… we need to formally identify…"

"NO!" Frank screamed out the denial and then tried to fight as his dad grasped his arms; as he was surrounded by people all imploring him to calm down; as he tried to focus on the living and not the… Even his mind shied away from the word.

"No…" The word was more of a sob this time and he was blindsided as grief and shock double-teamed him. "No…" He collapsed into his dad's embrace and then just let him hold him as if he were five years old again.

"No, dad…" He couldn't go to the morgue; couldn't see his mom lying on a cold, metal slab. It all held to much finality. And he wasn't ready to face that yet.

"We need to do this." Fenton's normally strong voice shook with grief. He grasped Frank's shoulder – trying to offer strength; but also seeking it in return. "We have to go and say goodbye."

_But what about Joe?_ Frank's mind screamed in response. _Focus on the living._ "How are we going to tell Joe?"

Fenton shook his head and sighed. It was one conversation he was dreading with all of his heart. How did you tell your son that he might have been responsible for the death of his own mother?

* * *

Somewhere along the line, someone had already broken the devastating news to Joe. He had asked questions and his insatiable curiosity wouldn't accept the fobbed off answers that were being offered to him.

In the end, there had been no choice. Joe had been getting more and more agitated – convinced that he was being lied to. And it had been down to a doctor to tell the awful truth as gently as possible – offering only minimal details and promising that someone would be along to talk to him very soon.

They also told him that he would be kept in overnight – just as a precaution – and, for once in his life, Joe didn't protest at all.

He was sent from the Emergency Room to Recovery and then into a Private Room – and it was there that the remainder of his family were allowed to see him.

The remainder of his family… His eyes misted over as he tried to comprehend what he had just been told. His mother was dead.

He himself had a headache, a few aches and pains and a nasty seatbelt bruise. And his mother was dead.

Joe's memories of the afternoon were a blur – and the more he tried to focus on them, the more indistinct they became. Trying to force any more recollections only served to make his aching head pound. A small part of him wondered if he could ask for some stronger medication – but he didn't want his already fuzzy thinking to degenerate any further.

He knew that his dad and his brother were there – and they might be the ones to give him the answers he craved. He needed to know the details. He needed to know if it was, in any way, his fault.

Then Joe heard a gentle knock at the door and he forced his eyes open.

* * *

"Hey, kiddo." Frank's greeting was forcedly relaxed and simple, as per the doctors' instructions.

It was incredibly difficult to try and stay calm. Not when he was still reeling from the devastating shock that had so recently been thrown at him. Not when his father was clearly on the verge of breaking down completely. Not when his brother was lying in a hospital bed looking as though his world had just ended.

But somebody had to keep it together – and, for now at least, that somebody had to be Frank.

"How are you feeling?" He scrutinised his brother as he asked the question. Bumps and scrapes aside, he didn't seem any the worse for wear. Not physically at least, but there was a haunted look to Joe's eyes that chilled Frank down to his very soul.

"Frank? Dad?" Unsurprisingly, Joe didn't answer the direct question. He lifted his eyes for a brief moment, and then quickly returned his gaze to the bedclothes. "What happened? They won't tell me… Other than…"

_Don't say it! _Frank didn't want to hear his brother's sad voice speak of their mother's demise. Each time such words were spoken out loud, it stabbed at him so deeply that the pain it caused was almost physical.

But he had no need to worry on that count. Joe seemed as equally incapable of saying the words as Frank was. However, his relief was short-lived as he realised that Joe was still awaiting an answer from him.

"Joe…" He began – and then trailed off. What could he possibly say? The doctors had warned him of the need to try and keep Joe calm; of not to overly agitate him in any way. Primarily, the young man needed to rest.

"Joseph." Fenton's tone made Frank wonder if his dad had been privy to that same instruction.

Frank straightened up and looked towards his father. Grief had aged Fenton Hardy; had deepened the furrows on his brow and the fine lines around his eyes. But there was also a strange blankness to his distinguished features.

Frank's breath caught in his throat. Was his dad already, somehow, blaming his youngest son for his wife's death? He had to stop this before it even started, as there was a very real danger that things might go too far. Words might be spoken that could never be un-said and their fractured family might be destroyed completely.

"Hey, it can wait until morning." He forced what he hoped was a reassuring smile. It didn't matter that it was still only the early evening. He just wanted to put off this conversation for a while – at least until he'd had a chance to talk to his dad. "Joe, if you can't remember…"

"Joseph, the police are right outside." Fenton spoke over his eldest son – and his tone was still ground out of granite. "They have some questions for you."

"Dad, does it have to be now?" Frank already knew the answer to that. Ezra Collig would never put such pressure on them at a time like this.

"Frank!" There was a definite and clear warning in Fenton's tone – and Frank bristled against it. He was only trying to help; trying to stop grief driven words from driving a wedge into their family. He didn't deserve such castigation.

He thought he knew what his dad was trying to do: he was trying to maintain some distance; to treat Joe as a witness and not a family member; to try and get some answers without his emotions getting in the way. But, though Frank understood the method, he couldn't agree with it.

An angry retort sprung to his lips and, if he had spoken, he might have compounded the very damage he was trying to avert. But a soft, sad voice stilled his tongue.

"It… It's okay, Frank." Joe actually sounded as though things were anything but okay – and when he raised his head, there were tears in his eyes. "I guess it's better we do this now…"

And Frank wanted to rage against his father – as it looked as though that were the very last thing Joe wanted to do. But he couldn't. He couldn't make things worse, when they were already rapidly descending towards hell.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Synopsis: A fatal accident has consequences more far-reaching than anyone could ever imagine. In this fic, Frank is eighteen and Joe is seventeen.

**WARNING! CONTAINS THE DEATH OF A HARDY FAMILY MEMBER.**

Author's note: Thanks so much for the incredible reviews. Sorry if Fenton seems a bit OOC, but everything happens for a reason... Disclaimer as in Chapter One.

Blame

Chapter Three

Joe remembered the mall. He remembered bugging his mom to let him drive for a while. He remembered a red light turning green. He remembered his mom laughing.

And he remembered his world crashing down around him, but he did not remember crashing the car he had been driving.

It was Con Riley who asked the questions, while Chief Collig stood silently behind him – with the air of a man who would not let this drop until he absolutely had to. Laura Hardy had been a friend to both him and his late wife.

Con looked as though he wanted to be there about as much as Frank wanted him to be. But Fenton insisted and Joe acquiesced, so all Con could do was ask the questions with as much tact and sympathy as he could muster.

"Joe, do you remember the other car?" The young cop asked – never insisting on answers; never even raising his voice.

In spite of himself, Frank leant forwards in interest. This was the first he had heard about the details of the accident.

Joe frowned, but was already shaking his head. There had been another car – but the only reason he was so certain of that was because Con had told him. He remembered his mother laughing, then a loud noise and then waking up in the back of an ambulance.

"Joseph, you are aiming to become a Private Investigator." Fenton said, in clipped tones. "I have trained you in observation; in memory retention and recollection."

"Dad!" Frank felt that he had to speak up. Their father was being totally irrational and it wasn't fair how much pressure he was putting on his son. He also hadn't missed the way that Fenton insisted on using Joe's full name every time he addressed him – and how Joe flinched slightly each time he did. This was going beyond trying to maintain some distance; it was bordering on cruel.

"Tell me what your brother was wearing when he left the house this morning." Though Fenton's eyes never left the miserable form of the younger boy, the words were clearly aimed at Frank.

"I won't answer that!" Frank shot back, outraged at the seeming callousness of his dad.

"No, you won't." Now Fenton turned to stare levelly at Frank. "But you could. And so could your brother. I taught you both well." He looked back towards Joe. "Try to concentrate. Can you at least explain why your mother wasn't wearing her seatbelt?"

* * *

Joe sucked in a ragged breath as he put two and two together – and reluctantly reached the answer of four.

_That_ was why his mother had died and he had escaped with the inconvenience of a minor concussion.

A memory slammed into him:

"_Alright, you can drive to the shelter." There was laughter in his mom's voice and Joe realised that he had been bugging her somewhat insufferably. _

_He helped her load the groceries into the car and then practically ran to the driver's side door – as though afraid she might change her mind. _

"_I need to phone your father, anyway."_

_Their plans had changed and, under new ground rules, any such change had to be notified. It negated any worry and accelerated help, should it be needed._

_The change was a minor one: a brief stop at the homeless shelter to drop off requested raffle prizes bought on a whim at the mall. It had seemed so innocent and yet had proved so deadly. _

_She was still chuckling at her son's enthusiasm as they pulled out of the lot. She took her cellphone from her purse and was just about to press speed-dial 1, when it had suddenly burst into life. _

_Startled, the phone flew from her hands and down into the foot well. Joe glanced sidelong at her, amusedly. Yes, they were all jittery since the threat of Houghton had arisen, but his mom's reaction had been somewhat extreme._

_He heard a click, was aware of his mom stooping forwards to retrieve her phone…_

"She dropped her phone," Joe whispered, into the silence that had descended. "She needed to call you cos we were dropping by the shelter…"

"Do you remember anything else?" Con asked, still with infinite gentleness.

"I…"

_It was kind of a game that he played, on the few occasions he was allowed to drive. If he saw a red light ahead of him, he would try and time his deceleration so that he would not come to a complete stop before the light changed._

_He was actually getting pretty good at it._

_The stop light on Main was too much to resist. The junction was clear; there was no waiting traffic and nothing behind him to cause a potential hazard. He eased off the gas with a good distance still to go – excitedly wondering if he could time it just right so that he wouldn't even have to touch the brake pedal at all. _

_But then the light changed while he was still a good twenty yards distant and brought a disappointingly premature end to his game. _

_Sighing to himself, he put steady pressure back on the gas._

"The light was green!"

It wasn't until he saw his dad, his brother and Con Riley all looking at him strangely, that he realised just how loudly he'd shouted those words. It was as though a part of him was desperate to prove he was blameless.

"Of course the light was green." Fenton was sounding increasingly annoyed. "Can you tell us anything relevant? Did you see anybody acting suspiciously? Did you ever feel that you were being followed? Anything?"

"Dad…" Frank tried to intervene, as the investigator's tone turned almost inquisitorial. Then help came from elsewhere in the room.

"Take it easy, Fenton." Collig spoke up for the first time. "He's not a suspect – he's your _son_!"

"My wife is dead, if you'd forgotten!" Fenton's harsh words proved that he was lashing out at everybody and not just Joe.

It somehow calmed Frank's racing heart.

And he had just lashed out at the one man who wasn't going to take his nonsense.

"I'd not forgotten, old friend." Collig took a step forwards. "But I think _you_ might have forgotten a thing or two." Fenton looked as though he was about to protest, but the Chief didn't let him: "My Officer is taking a statement from a material witness in a RTA. You were allowed in here merely as a courtesy."

"A courtesy?" Fenton roared – and both his sons shrank away from his fury. "That man killed my wife!"

"What man?" Collig retorted, with equal passion. He was shamelessly goading Fenton –directing the blame away from Joe and back where it belonged.

"Houghton!" The accusation could not have been stopped had his life depended on it. "Houghton did this." He looked at Joe, but the look was supplicating rather than angry. "He just needs to remember it."

"You can't force a memory that might not be there." Collig said, aiming his own look towards Joe – though his held only sympathy – and then returned his full attention to Fenton. "Let's finish this outside. Con can finish taking Joe's statement."

"But if he remembers something…" Fenton's reluctance was obvious.

"You'll be the first to know."

"I'll stay, dad." Inwardly, Frank was seething, but he never let it be apparent in his voice. Joe was already looking pale and incredibly strained. And it still wasn't over.

He focused his entire attention on his brother, even as he was aware of Fenton and Ezra leaving the room. Once they'd gone, the tension decreased palpably – and even Con heaved a small sigh of relief.

"Okay, Joe." The cop smiled – and it felt a bit less forced now that his boss was no longer breathing down his neck. "Is there anything else you can tell me?"

* * *

Joe was actually feeling more than a little nauseous. He knew that, in part, it might be attributed to his head injury. He also knew that it was more likely down to the attitude his father had exhibited towards him.

It had felt outright hostile – and Joe couldn't help but react to it. Now that the unspoken censure had been removed, he was able to relax marginally back onto the bed.

"I don't remember anything," he said softly; no longer terrified of what consequences he might face for that admission. Con Riley was never going to judge him – and he never even gave pause to think that Frank might. He knew, without a doubt, that he would never face such judgement from his brother.

"Con?" Frank could see the abject misery that radiated from his younger brother and sought some way to help take away his pain.

"I can't." The young cop instantly knew what was being asked of him – that Frank was fishing for more details of the crash; but he also knew that on this occasion he couldn't help – no matter how much he liked this family. "I can't risk prejudicing his memory."

"Frank… Frank, it's okay." Joe spoke up, but he sounded utterly defeated. "I… I'll try to remember…"

That was when it hit Frank: looking down at his brother, so lost and fragile looking; trying to find memories that simply weren't there, just to get some approval from his own father. Joe might have been seventeen; might have faced danger and even death in his short life; but he was still, essentially, just a kid.

Frank seethed as he remembered words about observation, retention and recollection of memory that had sounded harsh even to his ears.

To Joe, they must have sounded like censure.

"Joe, it's okay." He attempted reassurance, but it sounded fake and hollow. How could any of this be okay?

And his cynical thoughts were only confirmed when Joe turned his tear-bright eyes towards him. He was forced to realise that his baby brother had barely had the time to grieve for his dead mother.

"Joe…" He tried again. Failed again.

"Frank… What if..?" Joe's breath hitched and the tears finally spilled over. "What if it was my fault? What if I killed mom?"

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

Synopsis: A fatal accident has consequences more far-reaching than anyone could ever imagine. In this fic, Frank is eighteen and Joe is seventeen.

**WARNING! CONTAINS THE DEATH OF A HARDY FAMILY MEMBER.**

Author's note: Thanks so much for the incredible reviews. Disclaimer as in Chapter One.

Blame

Chapter Four

Con Riley couldn't take it any more. He risked the potential wrath of Fenton Hardy and Ezra Collig – who he was unashamedly terrified of – and he even risked losing his job.

But he couldn't watch this blameless boy torture himself wondering if he might be responsible for his own mother's death.

"Another car ran the lights!" The words were blurted out. He knew that he had to ease the suffering of the boy lying on the hospital bed. Wasn't that a part of his job description? 'To protect and serve' didn't cover half of it.

"Con?" Frank asked, thoroughly confused. He kept one eye on his little brother: saw how pale he had become; saw how his breath was hitching in his throat; saw how guilt was already eating at him, even though it had never been proven.

"A stolen Buick hit their car." Con answered on a sigh. He knew that he had already crossed the line and so went for the whole nine yards. His punishment couldn't be any more severe for it. He kept talking, before he lost his nerve: "It didn't stop and was found abandoned three miles away – just off the freeway."

Frank sighed and his chin dropped onto his chest. His brother was not to blame. Instead, it was the nameless driver of a stolen Buick. It was an accident.

He looked at Joe – intending to offer him a smile, some sort of condolence. But Joe had his eyes tightly closed. If he was trying to fool them into thinking he was sleeping, it was a very poor effort.

He was trembling, his hands were clenched into fists and tears were trickling down his cheeks, in spite of his tightly closed eyes. Frank's heart broke for him as he realised that Joe had not yet been given the time to properly grieve.

None of them had, in all honesty – and Frank genuinely feared the dawn of the next day. That was when they would all have to put the blame and doubts behind them. That was when they would have to start making plans for Laura Hardy's funeral.

He perched on the edge of the bed and looked at Con.

"Is there anything else?" he asked, tiredly.

Con closed his notebook and put it back in his pocket. Even if there was anything else, then it would wait. The brothers needed to rest.

He stood up and shook his head, wishing them both good luck on that count.

"Con, thank you." Frank stood up and shook the cop's hand, walking to the door with him.

"It's not done with yet," Con warned him, sincerely. They both looked back towards Joe. "They'll be some more questions."

"I know," Frank admitted. "But thank you anyway." Then he firmly closed the door. He wanted to talk to Joe but when he turned back towards the bed, his brother was doing a pretty good imitation of sleeping.

* * *

Frank ran his fingers through his hair and wondered what he should do. He could go and track down his dad and see if there were any new developments; he could force Joe to wake up – if he was even sleeping – and talk some more; he could grill Con for more details on the mystery stolen Buick.

But he did none of those things. Instead, he settled himself as comfortably as possible into a hard backed plastic chair – and waited.

He suspected that it wouldn't be a long wait and, mere minutes later, he was proved right.

"Frank? I need to know…" Joe's voice was hesitant, faltering. "How did mom… How did it happen?"

Frank had known that Joe wouldn't be sleeping, but he wished with all of his heart that he didn't have to face this conversation. He was instantly transported back to the morgue – and the memory of staring down at his mother's serene, lifeless face.

There had hardly been a mark on her – at least, not that he could see. There was some bruising down one side of her face; more around her hairline. And there were miniscule cuts, caused by broken glass – some of which still glistened in her blonde hair.

"_Massive head and spinal trauma." _Frank clearly remembered the words that the coroner had said to him. He just wasn't at all sure that he could repeat them to his brother.

"Frank?" The younger man's voice took on a pleading quality.

"Joe, she was…" _Pronounced dead at the scene. _The words were too impersonal, but there was no way he could sugar-coat what had happened. How did you find the right words to describe death? All that he had was the truth. "She had severe head injuries."

Joe sighed heavily and closed his eyes again. The tears refused to leave him alone for any length of time.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. Then his voice broke and he choked on a sob.

Frank sat bolt upright when he heard the words – alarmed, but somehow not overly surprised. "It wasn't your fault!" But even as he spoke the words, he knew that they were bound to fall on deaf ears.

Joe's next words proved him right again: "Dad seems to think so."

"No, he doesn't!" Frank knew that it was not his place to put words into their father's mouth – but he couldn't sit idly by and watch his brother suffer. "Dad's just shocked and upset and… and grieving." Now his own tears threatened to surface. "We're all grieving…"

The two brothers' eyes met and locked and each saw the intense sadness reflected in the other. Joe might have been a little bit closer to their mom than Frank – but that didn't make the older boy's grief any less profound.

"I think I miss her already." Joe's vibrant blue eyes shone more brightly through his tears.

"Yeah." Frank's own voice was thick with emotion. But he still couldn't let go of those emotions. There was still a hefty dose of guilt lurking in his brother's expressive features. He saw it as his job to make it go away. "But it wasn't your fault, Joe. You have to understand that."

"But dad…" Self-recrimination, fuelled by Fenton's words and actions, had taken a firm hold.

"You have to forget about what dad said, Joe." Frank implored. "He was angry – but not at you. He was just lashing out, that's all." He vividly remembered the ugly scene and sought some way to justify Fenton's actions to himself, before he could even consider trying to explain them to his brother. "It wasn't your fault. Dad knows that – but he's just… He's not thinking too clearly right now." It sounded lame, even to his own ears, but it was all that he had.

Joe clearly didn't buy it either – but he didn't immediately refute what Frank had said. Instead, he leant back against the pillows and closed his eyes again.

"What would you have done?" The question was barely audible. "When mom dropped her phone, what would you have done?"

At that moment, Frank realised just was a wonderful and useless thing hindsight was. He knew exactly what _should_ have been done – what might have saved their mother's life. He also knew that the 'right thing' wasn't necessarily what he would have done; or anybody else in Joe's position for that matter.

The answer was to pull over; to stop the car and wait until the cellphone had been retrieved and the seatbelt put back on. But Frank couldn't honestly say that that was what he would have done – no matter how glaringly obvious it seemed after the event.

"Nothing." He answered the question with absolute honesty. "I'd have done the same as you, Joe. I'd have kept on driving."

He wanted to explain further; wanted to elucidate that their mother was an adult and, as such, was responsible for her own actions. He wanted to do everything in his power to take some of the blame away from his brother's tormented soul. "Mom should have…" he began.

It was as though Joe read his mind – because a look of keen distress suddenly swept across his features. "Don't, Frank," he pleaded softly. "Don't make it mom's fault."

"That's not what I was doing." The accusation stung – and Frank wondered how he was ever supposed to handle this right when it seemed that everywhere he turned there were eggshells. He opted for simple, brutal facts: "It was a stolen car running a red light, Joe! That's what it was. That's whose fault it was!"

He studied Joe carefully as the blonde head nodded tiredly. He wasn't convinced that he really had got through to his brother, but he wasn't at all sure what else he could say. Their father seemed convinced that this was a part of Graham Houghton's plot for revenge – but Frank had yet to see any evidence that it was anything but an accident.

As much as he wanted to help Joe, he didn't want to cloud the issue with accusations that might prove to be totally unfounded. Their father might have done enough damage in that department already.

Looking at Joe's body language, it was clear that the young man still had things weighing heavily on his mind. Frank wondered exactly what they were – and how he could draw his brother out when he seemed to be gradually withdrawing from him.

He wondered if, maybe, it was time to take a break; to let Joe try and get some rest – as if that was going to be even remotely possible – and maybe try again when they had both had time to step back and take stock of everything.

It seemed like a good plan and, heaven knew, Frank was feeling an almost overwhelming need to close his eyes and get some sleep himself. Even though it was still early, he could feel exhaustion – fuelled by his extreme emotions – threatening to cascade over him. But clearly, Joe wasn't ready to let go just yet.

"You know, I want to believe you." Joe kept his eyes squeezed tightly closed as he spoke – in serious danger of losing his constant battle against his tears. "I want to believe it was just an accident. But Frank…" His voice wavered and the tears won out. "If it wasn't my fault, why can't I remember?"

"Because you have a concussion!" That one, at last, was easy to answer. "Joe, you've been through a lot. Your head injury, the shock, you know that they're all contributing factors in this."

Joe didn't look convinced; didn't even open his eyes. So Frank leant forwards and grasped his hand.

"You will remember," he said, genuinely believing that he was speaking the truth. "Just give it some time."

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

Synopsis: A fatal accident has consequences more far-reaching than anyone could ever imagine. In this fic, Frank is eighteen and Joe is seventeen.

**WARNING! CONTAINS THE DEATH OF A HARDY FAMILY MEMBER.**

Author's note: Disclaimer as in Chapter One. Thanks, as ever, for the continued reviews. _There might be a delay before the next chapter goes up. Real Life has just hit me pretty damned hard and I need to find a way to pick myself up again. But this story WILL be finished – I promise. Just give me a little time. _

Thanks, Helen

Blame

Chapter Five

Exhaustion, injury and medication eventually won out and Joe drifted off to sleep. But Frank remained exactly where he was: in the hard, uncomfortable plastic chair holding vigil. There was no way in hell that he was leaving his brother alone.

Houghton was still at large and ground rules were still in place but, even had that not been the case, nothing could have dragged him away from that hospital bed.

His little brother had been prone to nightmares in the past – and Frank knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he would be needed before the night was over.

And he also had his own demons to battle. He had to face up to the dreadful reality that his mother was dead; had to reconcile his father's terrible reaction, by justifying that Fenton's grief must have been increased a thousand fold, compared to what he was feeling. And he had to fight the insidious, sadistic voice that whispered in the back of his head – insisting on creating scenarios where the whole tragedy might have been avoided.

He closed his eyes and tried to forget the events leading up to that fateful trip to the grocery store; tried to ignore the niggling fact that it had been mere whim which caused Joe to be the one accompanying their mom; tried not to consider what the outcome might have been if he had been the one to volunteer.

Still fighting a losing battle with his own subconscious, Frank drifted off into a light sleep.

* * *

Joe was ten years old when he broke his arm. With a tenacity that would serve him well – and cause him a whole lot more trouble the older he got – he had refused to admit defeat when his Frisbee had got caught high up in the branches of an old tree. His friends – and his brother – had warned him about trying to retrieve it and even he had recognised just how dangerous the venture might prove to be.

The tree was ancient but not in a romantic, makes a perfect hideout/treehouse/anything you want it to be way. More in a rotten, decrepit, should be torn down sort of way.

But Joe loved his Frisbee and, when hurling rocks at the hopelessly snagged piece of plastic failed, had refused to write off his loss – as would have been the sensible thing to do. Sensible was an alien concept to ten-year-old Joe Hardy. So he climbed the old tree.

The inevitable happened and he had fallen – but he had fallen with the bright blue disc clutched triumphantly in his left hand.

With an irony that was almost predictable, the tree was torn down mere days later and the Frisbee never saw the light of day again that Spring.

But the damage had already been done:

His right arm had taken the brunt of the impact and was broken in three places. He had also sprained his knee, fractured a couple of ribs, suffered a minor concussion and sustained various other bumps and bruises.

The combination of wounds was severe enough to warrant a brief hospital stay and then strict orders that the boy was to remain housebound – preferably tucked up in bed – until he had time to properly heal.

Joe, unused to such forced inactivity, quickly became insufferably bored. And, with Frank at school and Fenton at work, it was Laura who had to bear the brunt of that boredom.

She never insisted that he stay in bed – she couldn't be that cruel – but that was the only consolation he had. And it was a small one at that.

The boy couldn't draw, or paint, or play with any of his toys properly. Even eating had become a chore and he was in constant danger of descending into surliness – even depression.

Inspiration struck Laura just when she had been on the verge of despair at ever seeing his wonderful smile again. She had been folding laundry and Joe had been staring listlessly at the television, without actually watching it. Laura took the remote from him and turned the set off. Then she sat down next to him and asked: "Why do you think the tree wanted to keep your Frisbee?"

And she had captured his imagination.

Over the following days and weeks – and then months and years – that followed, Laura would pick the most inane of topics and Joe would spin her some fantastic story. The story of the tree – of how it had grown old and sad and just longed for children to play in its branches again – was just the first of many. It became almost a tradition, whenever the two of them were alone together – and it was a tradition that had endured to her dying day.

"_How do you think it got there?" His mom was referring to a dented old shopping cart that had been discarded hovering precariously on the edge of the mall's multi-storey parking garage. _

_Though Joe was now a teenager – was, in fact, now old enough to drive – he never stopped loving this game. Though he knew that the cart had most probably been dumped by kids after they had finished messing around with it, he never once considered opting for such an ugly answer. _

"_It was used in a crime," he began, already thinking ahead as to how he would embellish this story. "It was used to transport stolen goods from the mall to where the bad guys had hidden their van._

_And his mom had laughed. _

Then he remembered that she was dead and they would never play that game again.

And Joe cried.

* * *

A sound woke Frank. Even though he wasn't exactly sure what the sound was, or even where he actually was, he knew it was important that he wake.

Reality crashed down on him with harsh unexpectedness and he scrubbed one hand across his face as he realised he was facing a world without his mother in it.

Then he recognised what the sound that had awoken him was. His brother was crying softly – and Frank's heart ached to witness it.

Even though they had both been sleeping, the two brothers' hands were still clasped together and so Frank squeezed just a little bit more tightly. He was trying to offer comfort, even though he knew that none could be given.

He wondered if he should wake Joe. Bitter experience had provided him with a thorough knowledge of head injuries and concussions – and he knew that the recipient should be woken every hour or so. But then he figured they were in a hospital and they had staff to take care of that kind of thing.

It was all probably beside the point anyway. Given the way that his brother was crying, there was no way he was actually still asleep.

"Joe," he whispered. Sleeping or not, it didn't matter. He couldn't just sit there and listen to the sound of such heartache. He pulled his chair in closer and reached out with his free hand to gently stroke his brother's blonde hair. "It's okay," he murmured, with what he hoped was reassurance. Joe didn't open his eyes, but he did turn towards Frank. Tears were cascading down his cheeks.

"It's okay…" Frank choked out. Then he sniffed. Until that moment he hadn't even realised that he, too, was crying.

Profound grief hit him then – and at the most inopportune moment. He had been seeking some way to help Joe.

But he couldn't comfort his brother any more, because he was suddenly too caught up in his own bitter memories. They couldn't even be considered bittersweet memories, because he knew that there would never be any more of them.

There would be no more bright, golden smile first thing in the morning – when it seemed that, no matter what time he rose, his mother was always up before him.

No more wonderful cooking and seeming to know exactly what it was that he needed – exactly what 'comfort foods' he craved.

No more tender touch – better than any medicine – when he was hurt, or injured, or even just plain sick.

No more 'rock' in the turbulence that was all of their lives. She had kept them grounded; kept them real; kept them human.

She had been the one to remind them of simple things that they might have otherwise taken for granted: the need to say 'I love you'; the strength drawn from a simple touch or even a mere word; the value of family.

She had been brave and strong and…

And now she was gone.

And Frank had lied to Joe when he'd numbly said that it was okay – because it _wasn't _okay. It wasn't. How could it be?

Their mother was dead – and he couldn't hold it together any more; not for anyone – not even his kid brother.

Their mom – _his_ _mom_ – was dead.

This couldn't be fixed. It wasn't something that he could solve with logic or intelligence or rational thinking. It wasn't something he could solve – period.

He believed in facts: cold, hard facts. And the simple fact was that Laura Hardy was dead.

Frank Hardy broke down and sobbed.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

Synopsis: A fatal accident has consequences more far-reaching than anyone could ever imagine. In this fic, Frank is eighteen and Joe is seventeen.

**WARNING! CONTAINS THE DEATH OF A HARDY FAMILY MEMBER.**

Author's note: Disclaimer as in Chapter One. Thanks to everyone for the reviews and the kind words. Life isn't back to normal – I don't suppose it ever will be – but things are settling down and I'm starting to pick up the pieces. Hopefully, updates will be a little more frequent from now on. I'll also try to catch up with my own reviewing! Thanks for your patience. Helen

Blame

Chapter Six

Joe could hear his brother's heartache – and it scared him. Frank wasn't a 'crier'.

He didn't so much keep his emotions bottled up; more that he rarely demonstrated them anywhere other than in private.

Even Joe wasn't often privy to his emotional outbursts – though he had heard them through the doors that separated his brother's room from his.

The first time he heard Frank's tears, he had tried to help. But Frank had just scrubbed savagely at his eyes and then tried to pretend that nothing was wrong. So Joe had left him alone – and then continued to do so, unless his brother sought out his comfort.

It wasn't that Frank was stoic – he was just too much his father's son. Men of Fenton's ilk simply didn't show that sort of emotion and, as with so many things, Frank followed in his footsteps very closely.

Joe, on the other hand, took after their mother in more than just looks. He was much more demonstrative and wore his heart on his sleeve.

Frank knew that – and he also knew exactly what to do: whether he needed comfort, or whether he just needed to be left alone. He had empathy and understanding.

At that moment in time, Joe felt like he had neither.

In typical Frank style, he had withdrawn at the moment of his breakdown, pulling back and burying his face in his hands. This time, however, Joe couldn't just leave him be. While the older boy preferred solitude, the younger needed contact.

His pain had been buried by medication and he did not have to worry about aggravating any of his minor injuries, so Joe rolled onto his side and shifted as close as he could to the edge of the bed.

Not quite sure what to do – or, more importantly, how he would be received – he simply clasped Frank's shoulder. His own tears were dry now – at least for the time being. He was under no illusions that there wouldn't be more grieving along the way. But this moment belonged to Frank.

His brother didn't speak; didn't even acknowledge him at first. Joe closed his eyes, fearing rejection. He was about to draw away, before Frank did, when he felt a strong hand come to rest on top of his.

"Thanks, bro."

The words were softly spoken, but were no less heartfelt for it.

Joe opened his eyes and Frank did the same. They exchanged a look that conveyed more than words ever could: _I'll always be here for you, whether you're aware of it or not. I'll be there._

Then the moment was broken as the door opened and a nurse stepped into the room. She looked at the brothers and smiled.

"I see that you're awake." Her words were directed towards Joe. "How do you feel? Any nausea or dizziness?"

Joe shook his head. He knew the drill – he'd had concussions before – but he really didn't want to interact with anyone except Frank. He couldn't find any words for her.

As was ever the case, Frank came to his rescue.

"I can keep an eye on him." His own smile was a little resigned. "I know what to do – you can clear it with the doctor if you want."

"No, that's fine." The nurse looked a little flustered. She knew what the brothers had been through – and she had also been told of their unique circumstances, that dictated visiting hours didn't often apply to them. "I just wanted to make sure that you were both okay."

"We will be." Frank's response was aimed more at his brother than at the nurse – and, for Joe, they were a promise.

* * *

Fenton spent the night at Ezra's house. The Chief had insisted.

He couldn't say that he slept there, because sleep was destined to be an elusive stranger that night. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Laura:

Her shy smile as she first accepted his invitation to dinner.

Her excitement when he had proposed – and her breathless answer of 'yes' that had made his heart soar.

Her radiance as she walked to the altar – stunning beyond belief and the most beautiful bride he had ever laid eyes on.

Her passion in everything she said and did – everything she believed in. Her passion for him.

Her pride when she presented their firstborn child – mirrored with equal intensity when the second boy came.

He even remembered her frowns, when he screwed up – as he had on more than one occasion in the past.

And the last two memories connected somewhere in his brain. Laura was frowning – he had screwed up.

_Joe._

He remembered grief first – but then came the memory of harsh words: _Observation, retention and recollection._ Oh God, what had he done?

He thought about it for hours, trying to twist the situation so that his words wouldn't seem quite so condemning. He failed.

He had behaved unforgivably towards his youngest child – and it didn't even matter that he had been reeling from the death of his wife; was seeking answers that might not be there; was just looking for a reason that Laura was dead. His behaviour had been inexcusable.

Emotions had run high for all of them, but he was the only one who lost control.

Ezra had let him know that – in no uncertain terms – the moment he had dragged him out of Joe's interview. Only it had taken until now; until he had imagined Laura's silent admonishment, to really sink in.

Fenton got dressed. It didn't matter that it was one o'clock in the morning. He didn't need guilt vying with his grief. He had to talk to Joe.

He crept down the stairs, unwilling to disturb his generous host. Then he realised that his stealth had been somewhat futile. Chief Collig was sitting at the kitchen table, with an array of papers spread out before him. He still wore his uniform; making it clear that he had not even considered retiring for the night.

Fenton never stood a chance of sneaking out past him.

A few moments after his singular, abortive attempt the two men sat drinking coffee and shuffling the papers on the table. They contained precious little information.

It didn't matter. Both men knew that Fenton's reasons for being there had nothing to do with the accident. He was looking for atonement; for a release from his guilt at the way he had treated his second-born.

Ezra knew that he had to dissuade it. Though Fenton was genuinely contrite, other emotions were still hovering dangerously close to the surface and the PI was clearly tormented by them.

It wouldn't take much for those emotions to take free rein – and then even more, and possibly irreparable, damage might be done. Any conversation with Joe would be best undertaken in the morning.

So Ezra distracted Fenton with a small scotch – citing that he needed it, even if the Investigator didn't. One led to a second and then a third. And then they spent a sad and yet companionable night remembering their wives.

* * *

Somehow, both Frank and Joe slept. They weren't disturbed by the nursing staff again and Frank did as he had promised. He kept an eye on Joe, waking him periodically – though Joe's sleep was sporadic to say the least.

They didn't talk much throughout the night and that was an alien thing to both of them. Joe didn't talk because he was still wrestling with feelings of guilt. Frank didn't talk because he was too afraid that his words might come out wrong, or be somehow misconstrued.

It wasn't like them to be so awkward with one another, but both were powerless against it. And so the night dragged on – and depression hovered in the periphery of both their minds.

Eventually, as with any other night, it was over and the dawn came. With it came breakfast – almost totally ignored, aside from a welcome drink of orange juice – and the return of Joe's doctor: Henry Foy.

Doctor Foy wasted no time in discharging Joe. Though he sympathised with the boy's plight, there really was no need to keep him in. There had been no complications and it was obvious that his brother was perfectly capable of taking care of him.

Instructions were given, prescriptions were filled and forms were signed – and then Joe was officially allowed to go home.

He baulked at the hospital doors.

"Joe?" Frank was instantly concerned. Joe had ditched the obligatory wheelchair at the reception desk but, as he went to step out into the parking lot, he suddenly stopped in his tracks.

* * *

Joe couldn't help his reaction – and nor could he fight it. As the automatic doors swished open, he was confronted by rows and rows of cars. To his traumatised mind, they all looked like the nondescript brown sedan that his mother had owned. Unbidden, his mind sent him back in time:

_He grinned at his mom as he climbed into the car and she smiled indulgently back at him._

"_Just remember," she said, light-heartedly. "If you get so much as a scratch on it, then you get to explain to your father."_

"_Don't worry, mom," he answered, with absolute confidence. "Not a scratch. I promise."_

He hitched in a breath and looked out over the sea of cars; even though he was no longer really seeing them any more. He felt almost claustrophobic, even though they had just stepped outside and after the brief breath he had snatched, he couldn't seem to draw another one.

"Joe!"

Frank's voice seemed to come from a great distance and he sounded worried – more, he sounded scared. Joe wanted to take that desperate tone out of his brother's voice, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from the cars – from the identical row upon row of brown sedans. It was like a scene from _'The Twilight Zone'._

Full blown panic was becoming a very real threat and he felt Frank's hand tighten on his arm; heard his worried voice, even if he didn't actually comprehend the words.

And then another voice invaded his nightmare:

"Frank! Joe!"

It was their father's voice and it was enough to break the thrall that held Joe. Even as he flinched away, he focussed on a red Toyota, a black Dodge, a silver Mustang, a green Ford. He didn't see a single car that looked even remotely like his mom's.

He finally remembered to breathe again – and then felt a different kind of panic flare through him. He wasn't at all sure he was ready to face his father – not after what had happened the last time they had spoken.

Then he realised that there wasn't going to be a confrontation – at least, not yet. As Joe turned towards his dad, he saw Frank shift subtly. He didn't quite step in between him and his dad – but his body language, his message, was unmistakable:

_I won't let you hurt him – not again._

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

Synopsis: A fatal accident has consequences more far-reaching than anyone could ever imagine. In this fic, Frank is eighteen and Joe is seventeen.

**WARNING! CONTAINS THE DEATH OF A HARDY FAMILY MEMBER.**

Author's note: Disclaimer as in Chapter One. Thank you all so much for the reviews and your continuing kind words. You are all wonderful people.

Blame

Chapter Seven

Fenton had eventually crashed on Ezra's couch. The scotch did its trick and let him succumb to sleep, when sobriety would never have allowed him such a luxury.

He still woke with the dawn. Ezra was nowhere in sight – but Fenton barely gave that a pause for thought. It didn't matter where his host was – all that mattered was where he himself needed to be.

The Police Chief had stopped him from going to the hospital in the middle of the night, but now he was no longer an obstacle.

Before leaving though, Fenton put on a pot of coffee. The alcohol had flowed steadily, if not freely, and he needed to clear his head. He also needed the time to put his thoughts in order – and to try and figure out exactly what he was going to say. One thing was certain: he wasn't about to go blundering in again.

He had to find some way to make Joe understand – and to forgive him.

Grief had been his primary motivator – grief and the driving need to understand and to try and apportion blame. He knew in his heart that it was Houghton. All he'd wanted was for Joe to give him some kind of confirmation; some grounds to base that suspicion upon.

He had been wrong in his methods and now he felt the overwhelming need to make amends; to hold what was left of his family together.

Ezra had driven them to his house the previous night, but that wasn't much of a problem to Fenton. The Chief, by necessity, lived close to the heart of Bayport and the hospital was just a short cab ride away.

The ride might have been short, but it proved to be expensive. As the cab pulled to a halt and Fenton got out, he saw a sight that instilled an irrational urgency in him. His sons were exiting the hospital and, though he didn't know why, he knew it was important that he spoke to them both – and most especially Joe – before they left the place where the damaging words had been spoken.

He dragged a bill out of his wallet and muttered 'keep the change', affording the cab driver with a more than generous tip. Then he took off at a run across the hospital parking lot.

"Frank! Joe!"

He called out their names merely to alert them to his presence. But when they turned towards him, their expressions caused his run to slow to a walk.

Then Frank stepped protectively in front of his brother and Fenton faltered; coming to a complete standstill.

From the brief glimpse he'd caught of Joe, the boy looked on the verge of an all out panic attack. Somehow, Fenton couldn't blame him. And nor could he blame Frank for the defensive posture that he struck.

Now, it was no longer simply a case of reaching Joe. He had to get past his firstborn son in order to do so.

* * *

It struck Frank that his dad had shouted out the name 'Joe'. Not _Joseph_, as had been so condemnatory the previous day, but merely Joe. He tried to see it as a good sign.

But, 'good sign' or not, he had to try and gauge his father's mood. He wasn't about to allow a repeat of the scenes in the hospital room and he wasn't above running interference for Joe – or of taking any direct flak should things become more heated.

"Dad, we were…" And then he was forced to trail off. They hadn't made any definite plans, aside from getting Joe out of the hospital.

Frank idly wondered where he'd been thinking of taking his brother; home didn't seem the most tactful of places.

"Frank, please…" Fenton tried to move around his eldest son and was dismayed to see him shift to keep his body between him and Joe. He shook his head, deflated. This was no more than he deserved. "Can we at least go for coffee? Maybe we can… talk?"

As much as he loved and respected his dad, Frank wondered if it was too late for such an olive branch. After all, it didn't matter what emotion had driven him to say those devastating words. The damage they had caused was potentially irreparable.

Joe looked like he was afraid of him and, because of that, Frank was having a hard time finding any sort of forgiveness.

But their father was looking full of remorse and there was a definite hint of self-loathing lurking deep within his brown eyes. If Frank wasn't feeling forgiveness, he was definitely feeling at least a mild sense of pity.

Fenton had done wrong – and he knew it. He was just seeking some way to right that wrong.

Frank had to afford him some respect. The older man was almost desperate for atonement and yet he was standing back and letting Frank call the shots. He wasn't trying to bulldoze through to his youngest son, just to find some way to make himself feel better. That had to be worth something.

Joe clearly felt it too. He sidestepped away from Frank's protective posture and, though he never actually looked at Fenton, his words were obviously aimed at him:

"Maybe, uh… Maybe not coffee…" His words were low and hesitant. "But, uh… Maybe…"

"There's a cafe just around the corner." Frank took pity on his brother and interrupted the broken, faltering words. He wasn't entirely convinced it was a good idea, but if it was what Joe wanted then it was what he wanted, too.

* * *

Frank and Fenton both ordered coffee, while Joe opted for a raspberry smoothie. They managed to find a table, in spite of the early morning rush.

Then, all three sat and stared into their respective drinks: two trying to find the right words to say and one seeking the strength to get them past those words. Eventually, it was Joe who broke the strained silence.

"D… dad…" He stumbled over the familiarity, as though wondering how it would be received. "Can I… Can I just say something?"

"Go ahead, son." Fenton attempted reassurance – but he still couldn't bring himself to look Joe in the eyes.

Frank could only switch his gaze back and forth between the two. He didn't know what Joe wanted to say; didn't know how his dad would react. All he knew was that he hated this to be happening in such a public place. It had too much potential to end badly.

But he was not allowed the time to give thought to those possible consequences, as Joe spoke again.

"I'm sorry." The words were barely audible. Joe's gaze was affixed firmly to his untouched drink. Both of his hands were on the table, lightly encircling the base of his glass. As he spoke, he began to slowly rotate the glass. "Mom said…"

"Joe." Frank wanted to stop this – but he might as well have been invisible; or inaudible. His words were totally ignored.

"Mom said if I got so much as a scratch on the car…" The glass had been twirling faster and it suddenly slipped from Joe's fingers and crashed to the floor. "I'm sorry, dad! I'm sorry!"

"Oh, Joey…" Fenton reached out and grasped at his son's forearm – immeasurably relieved when his touch wasn't rejected. "Son, you have nothing to be sorry for."

Frank looked away then – feeling as though he was intruding on a very private moment. He let his gaze wander around the coffee shop and noted that no-one seemed to be paying even the slightest bit of attention to their unfolding family drama.

Even the staff seemed somewhat blasé about the broken glass and the spilled smoothie. But then, Frank realised, they were situated so close to the hospital that such dramas were merely a daily occurrence for them.

He looked back towards his brother and his dad, hoping against hope that they had found a way past the walls that divided them. All it would take was a hug. Frank knew that it was all Joe would need for some sort of atonement.

Then he had to look away in disappointment. Fenton's hand still held Joe's arm and there was fleeting, brief eye contact. But…

Frank looked around again and saw a stranger watching them. The man was pretending to read a newspaper and, when he saw that Frank had noticed him, quickly thrust the paper aside and took off for the nearest exit. Recognition slammed into him.

"Dad! Houghton!" Frank only needed those two words.

Fenton never gave a thought to anything else in that instant. Not his children, not the café and not the dozens of people who were potentially in the way. He saw his target and went after it.

If Frank or Joe had ever harboured any doubt over their dad's love for their mom, then it was gone in that instant. Fenton Hardy had the air of a man on a mission and he had looked homicidal.

"Dad!" Frank's mere voice was never going to be enough to stop him. But how could he leave his brother alone? What promises would that violate?

"Go!" Joe's urgent voice negated that argument. He was scared – almost panicked – and who the hell could blame him? The man that their father had so recklessly gone chasing after might already be responsible for the death of their mom.

Frank hesitated – torn between the need to stay with his brother or go after his father. Irrefutable logic won out. Joe was in a public place, surrounded by people. His dad was alone and chasing after a certifiable madman.

"Call 911!" Frank wasn't entirely sure who he aimed those words at but, as he exited the café, he did spare a glance back.

Joe was fishing in his pockets for his cellphone. But, more reassuringly, a waitress had a telephone receiver gripped firmly in her fist and was already beginning to dial.

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

Synopsis: A fatal accident has consequences more far-reaching than anyone could ever imagine. In this fic, Frank is eighteen and Joe is seventeen.

**WARNING! CONTAINS THE DEATH OF A HARDY FAMILY MEMBER.**

Author's note: Disclaimer as in Chapter One. Thank you so much for the reviews. I'm a little bit nervous about this chapter, because the story is moving on now. I hope you all continue to enjoy it.

Blame

Chapter Eight

Joe couldn't find his cellphone. It wasn't in his jeans and it wasn't in his jacket pocket, where he normally kept it.

Realisation hit him a split-second later.

He had been admitted to the hospital and so his clothes had been taken. Frank had brought him something else to wear only that morning. And so his phone was either back at the hospital, in amongst countless other 'personal effects' or Frank had filled out the necessary paperwork – and all of his things were now safely ensconced in their car.

Neither option was particularly helpful to Joe. He could only rely on someone else to call the cops – and his faith in that happening was a long way removed from overwhelming.

He glanced towards the counter. The waitress who'd grabbed at the phone still held it clutched in her fist. Joe wasn't sure whether she'd dialled out or not.

He looked at the other patrons – but all of them seemed intent on pretending that nothing out of the ordinary had happened. It was always better not to get involved.

After only a brief moment, Joe realised that it didn't matter if the waitress had made the call or not. She only had the barest minimum of information – two men had chased another man from the café. It hardly constituted an emergency.

He had to contact the police himself; talk to Con Riley, or even Chief Collig. Let them know that Houghton was now more than a perceived threat. He was real and he was in Bayport.

Out of the café window, he saw the familiar sight of a payphone and headed towards it without even giving pause for thought.

* * *

Frank pounded down the street, amazed at how quickly both his dad and Houghton were moving. Even as he ran from the café, he only just exited in time to see Fenton disappear around the corner at the end of the road.

He sprinted after them, fear gnawing at his gut. Houghton was a very dangerous man – there had never been any doubt of that – but, deep down, Frank also shared his father's belief that the revenge driven felon was responsible for the death of his mom. He wasn't about to let the man do anything to harm his dad as well.

Forcing even more speed from his athletic frame, he rounded the corner – and then saw only an empty street ahead of him.

Frank barely slowed down from his breakneck pace. The two men he pursued couldn't have gained that much distance on him and they hadn't simply disappeared off the face of the Earth. He kept his sharp eyes peeled – trusting his senses and his instincts to lead him in the right direction.

He ran past an alley and half-glanced towards it; he knew it to be a dead end and the last place that a hunted man would flee. Then an image slammed into his adrenaline soaked mind and he skidded to a halt and let that image fully register:

_Two men: one prone and one threatening._

There was no time for caution. The prone man had been his father.

* * *

Joe was just about to cross the street and head towards the payphone he had seen, when he was suddenly forced to leap back onto the sidewalk by a dark sedan speeding around the corner to his right.

It slewed to a halt directly in front of him and, before Joe could even register any more detail, he heard a door open and then found himself staring directly down the barrel of a gun.

"Police! Put your hands where I can see them!"

Joe could barely register the face of the man shouting orders. He could only see that wide black gun barrel and the danger – even death – it promised.

"Put your hands up!"

He had heard a gun being cocked before; had even heard one being fired – but the threat had never been this immediate and it had never come from the right side of the law. The man wielding the weapon _had_ identified himself as a police officer.

Slowly, Joe raised his hands.

"Get to your knees and clasp your hands behind your head!"

Numbly, Joe complied. Then, before he knew it, he was lying face down on the ground and his vaguely identified assailant was standing over him. Cuffs bit into his wrists and his arms were twisted with unnecessary force.

Too late, Joe regretted his easy acquiescence. He hadn't seen – or asked to see – a badge; he hadn't even had any charges levelled at him.

Sudden questions fired through his mind: Didn't the police usually work in pairs, so where was this man's partner? What had he done to draw the law's attention to him? Was he actually under arrest – and, if so, why?

His face pressed into the concrete, Joe couldn't even ask those questions that only came to him with hindsight. And then one final, chilling thought came to him: Why had this happened the first time he had been on his own since Graham Houghton's escape from prison?

Too late, he began to struggle – and was rewarded with a sharp blow to his already aching head.

He had no strength left as he was hauled towards the dark sedan.

* * *

Frank yelled as he ran full tilt into the alley. Surprise was the only weapon he had.

For a moment, it worked – and it quite possibly saved his dad's life.

The second man, predictably, was Houghton and he had a knife. There was also a bloodstained two-by-four lying nearby and Frank guessed that to be the cause of Fenton's currently unconscious state.

At least he hoped it was. A brief glance at the fallen man wasn't enough to provide even a cursory examination – and his attention had to remain wholly fixed on Houghton. The psychotic man seemed intent on working his way through the entire Hardy family.

Frank took a deep breath and sought out his martial arts training. He was more than equipped to deal with a knifeman – but that was without the distraction of his father lying bleeding at his feet. And there was a niggling worry over Joe, somewhere in the back of his mind, that would just not go away.

Then Houghton laughed and Frank tensed.

"Make your choice, boy," the felon sneered. "Me or him."

Houghton threw the knife directly up into the air and Frank had no choice but to watch it through terrified eyes. The knife was short-handled and long, heavy bladed, with a serrated cutting edge on both sides. Gravity demanded that it land blade side first; trajectory dictated that it would squarely strike his father's exposed and vulnerable chest.

There was no choice to make.

Frank dived forwards – Houghton forgotten – but with no definite plan in mind. His actions were instinctive and more hopeful than premeditated. He needed to deflect the knife. But, failing that, he needed to protect his unconscious father – and the only defence he had to offer was his own body.

He lunged with only one aim in mind: to save his father's life; to stop the blade from finding its target of his unprotected chest.

He couldn't catch the knife – that would have taken a miracle and Frank had long since learnt not to rely on those.

And while he was prepared to risk his own life for his dad, that option wasn't exactly at the top of his list. For Joe it would have been a different story, but his dad? Maybe some resentment did still linger.

Even as the thought crossed his mind, time ran out.

Instinct was his brother's forte, while he relied primarily on logic. But at that moment instinct was all he had.

He dived low and fast; fists clenched – his intention being only to try and deflect the deadly blade. Pain slashed through his left hand, but a split-second later it was forgotten as he landed heavily.

He still did not give pause to think. At the edge of his awareness, he heard the clatter as the knife hit the concrete; thought he might have even seen sparks fly in the periphery of his vision. But he ignored it all as he hit the ground shoulder first and let his momentum propel him into a controlled roll that carried him clear of his father.

Immediately, he sat up into a crouch. An inherent sense of latent danger had him rapidly scanning the alley. Self-preservation had to come first: he'd be of no use to his dad if he was hurt.

But Houghton was long gone and Frank could finally allow himself some semblance of relaxation. He could take control again – he could focus on the 'now'. He could care for his dad without worrying too much about anything else.

Except…

Where was Joe?

Frank knew he had left him back in the café, but that didn't fill him with the utmost of confidence. Joe wasn't one to stay put – especially in such a dangerous and emotionally charged situation.

He couldn't expect his brother to be sitting on his hands and waiting for the cavalry to arrive. Frank deliberately didn't think about what his brother might have been doing instead.

He had to take care of his dad and pray that Joe hadn't done anything even remotely rash.

But questions nagged at him, as his accursed logic once again took over. Why had Houghton lured them away like he did? If his intention was to kill Fenton, then why not finish the job before Frank got there? And why had there been triumph in his eyes the moment before he fled?

'_Joe!'_ Frank thought – but it was no more than a gut instinct. And he still had his dad, who had yet to regain consciousness, to take care of.

Fishing a handkerchief out of his pocket, he wrapped it around his bleeding left hand. Then all he could do was pull out his phone and call 911.

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

Synopsis: A fatal accident has consequences more far-reaching than anyone could ever imagine. In this fic, Frank is eighteen and Joe is seventeen.

**WARNING! CONTAINS THE DEATH OF A HARDY FAMILY MEMBER.**

Author's note: Disclaimer as in Chapter One. Thank you all so much for the reviews.

Blame

Chapter Nine

Frank could hear sirens in the distance and perhaps his father heard them too – on some subconscious level – because he chose that exact moment to begin to stir. His eyes flickered and his hands twitched. Then he uttered a low and pain-filled moan.

Frank was instantly crouching back at his side; abandoning his fruitless pacing as he waited for help to arrive. His imagination was in overdrive and he couldn't help but fear for Joe – even though he had nothing solid to base those fears on.

However, he had to push those fears aside and focus on his father.

"Easy, dad," he murmured, as Fenton's movements increased and pain flashed across his features. Frank laid a gentle hand on his shoulder to still those movements and was rewarded by brown eyes flickering open. "Keep still," he continued, knowing that his tone was infinitely more important than the actual words. "You're going to be fine. Help's on the way."

He tried to keep his dad calm, but it was always going to be a difficult – if not impossible – task, given the circumstances that currently surrounded their family.

Unsurprisingly, Fenton shrugged his hand away and raised himself up onto his elbows. The only consolation Frank had was that the other man's eyes were clear and there were no obvious signs of a concussion.

"Where's your brother?" Fenton asked – and his voice was as equally clear as his eyes.

Frank felt his stomach drop as his dread returned with full force. Why hadn't his dad asked about his assailant first? Why hadn't he been concerned about Houghton?

"Dad…" He wasn't quite sure how to answer.

Fenton pushed himself fully upright and reached out to grab hold of Frank's bicep. "Where's Joe?"

"He's at the café." Even as Frank said the words, he prayed they were still true. He _had_ left Joe back at the café – but whether he was still there was a different matter entirely.

Joe was the impulsive one – and, hurt or not, would not think twice about rushing headlong into danger. Especially when his family was threatened.

Frank tried to see it as a good sign that Joe hadn't caught up with them in the alley, but he knew better than to put too much faith in that one fact. He couldn't forget the expression on Houghton's face as he'd made his escape – and something told him that it was somehow connected to Joe.

"Call him," Fenton instructed, his own pain now forgotten.

"He doesn't have his cell," Frank remembered. Even as he said the words, his heart sank ever lower. How had he left his injured brother in such a vulnerable situation? "It's in the car, with his things from the hospital."

"Then we have to get to him!" Fenton tried to push himself to his feet; tried to ignore the sickening dizziness that suddenly assailed him. He could hear the sirens, now so shockingly loud that the emergency services had to be almost right on top of them. He definitely didn't have time for the hospital.

"Dad…" Frank tried to protest. Help was almost with them and his concern for Joe was still nothing more than an instinct. His primary worry had to be for his dad. He had, after all, been unconscious for some minutes. However, the next words from his father's mouth silenced any further protest:

"He was goading me." He used his grip on Frank's arm to steady himself, as he finally found his equilibrium. "I was going to call for backup. I know how dangerous he is, but then he said…"

He was interrupted as a police car turned into the alley – lights flashing, but the sirens thankfully now silenced. An ambulance stood ready at the intersection.

"What did he say, dad?" Frank successfully ignored both; his previous dread now turning into very real fear.

"He said: _'which one will I take from you next?'_"

* * *

Con Riley had been close enough to respond to the dispatcher's call for assistance to Frank Hardy. He had also been aware of the request for an ambulance and impotent anger twisted his gut as he sped towards the address he'd been given.

How much more was this family supposed to take? They were all still reeling from the death of Laura and yet, within a day, something else had befallen them.

They didn't deserve any of what was happening to them.

As he drove – lights and sirens blazing – he feared what he might find. The dispatcher had divulged everything she knew, but she only had the barest facts to work from. A man had been attacked by a suspected escaped felon. The man was Fenton Hardy; the perpetrator Graham Houghton – and it was serious enough to require an ambulance.

He spared a glance towards his rookie partner as he floored the gas. Jacob Enckleman was not only new to the force; he was also new to Bayport. He probably didn't understand exactly who the Hardys were and why it was so important for him to help them.

Con's brief glance dared the rookie to question his call; to argue their proximity; to second-guess him in any way at all. But Enckleman held his silence – watching with barely concealed excitement as Con pushed their cruiser to its very limits.

* * *

"Con!" Frank would only have been more relieved if it had been Chief Collig stepping out of the car that had pulled up alongside them. He didn't waste another word with any pleasantries. "We have to get to Joe."

"Whoa, Frank. Slow down!" Con focussed his attention on the agitated teen; pleased to note that Enckleman had made a beeline for Fenton and was already beckoning the EMTs to come and do their job. "Tell me what happened."

"There's no time." Frank tried to dodge past the cop, but Con grabbed hold of his shoulders and held him fast.

"Your dad needs help." He tried to force Frank into finding some perspective – but it only had the opposite effect. Frank's agitation grew.

"_Joe_ needs help!"

At the exact same moment, Con heard Fenton cry out in anger and turned just in time to see the PI push Enckleman forcefully away from him.

Things were in danger of getting out of hand. Whether Fenton Hardy held a Private Investigator's licence or not, he was still a civilian. And he had just come dangerously close to assaulting a police officer.

"Tell me what happened." Con demanded of Frank.

"Houghton was here and he hurt my dad." As he said the words, Frank's eyes sought out the EMTs. They were hovering some distance away and Frank couldn't really blame them. The atmosphere around the four of them was definitely charged.

"And he's gone after Joe!" Fenton had clearly decided that Enckleman wasn't worth his time and so he rounded on Con instead. "We have to stop him."

Con didn't waste any more time fishing for details. Though he privately wondered exactly what the father and son knew – and how they knew it – he trusted them implicitly. And their worry over Joe was almost like a living thing. "Where is Joe?" He asked the only question that mattered.

"A café…" Fenton began. Then he blinked and looked at Frank in supplication – he'd been much more concerned about Joe than his surroundings when they had entered the café. "I don't know what it's called."

"Haven," Frank supplied. He remembered the name clearly – thinking how trite it was being situated so close to the hospital. "The café's called Haven. It's about a block and a half from here."

"Then let's go." Pausing only to direct Enckleman to remain at the scene to liaise with the Crime Scene Investigators, he ushered the two of them into his cruiser.

* * *

Somewhere along the way, Joe passed out. He remembered being bustled into a waiting car; being forced to lie in the foot well in the back of that car; trying to protest and receiving another glancing blow to his already aching head. That hadn't knocked him out cold, because he also remembered the unwelcome nausea that it had induced. At least he didn't throw up – or he didn't think he did.

But full darkness wasn't too far away from that final blow.

When awareness returned, he was lying on a cold stone floor. His hands were still bound and utter darkness surrounded him.

Terror clenched an icy fist around his heart.

The darkness was absolute: sheer blackness that gave no hint to a window, or door, or wall, or even if the floor continued solidly around where he lay. For all he knew, he might be lying on the edge of some great drop.

Terror gave way to mind-numbing, paralysing panic.

He could not see, couldn't hear a thing and was too terrified to move. He tried the only thing he had left:

"H… hello?" His voice sounded unnaturally loud, even though – in reality – he knew it had been scratchy and weak. In the thick, black silence it had sounded like a scream.

He thought about trying to get to his knees, of maybe trying to explore the confines of his prison. But, the moment he moved, vertigo plunged through him – leaving him dizzy and gasping and more afraid than ever.

All he had was the small piece of cold concrete on which he lay. Everywhere else was rife with uncertainty and danger.

Fear spiked through him and he was unable to prevent a sob from escaping – again he flinched away from the sound.

He was horribly confused. More vague memories teased at the edge of his awareness and, if he had been capable of logical thought, he would have realised that the recent blows to his head were contributing to the extreme emotions and confusion that raged through him.

But he was no longer capable of logic and he could do nothing other than just lie there and try to fight down the nausea and pain that continued to assail him.

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

Synopsis: A fatal accident has consequences more far-reaching than anyone could ever imagine. In this fic, Frank is eighteen and Joe is seventeen.

**WARNING! CONTAINS THE DEATH OF A HARDY FAMILY MEMBER.**

Author's note: Disclaimer as in Chapter One. Thank you all so much for the reviews. _I'll TRY to update again over the weekend, but I've got a pretty busy work schedule coming up. If I don't manage to, apologies in advance for the delay._

Blame

Chapter Ten

"He was arrested." The blonde waitress, Sally Winsome, who had served them just a short while ago, said the very last words that Frank expected to hear. He wasn't the only one taken by surprise by them.

"Uh… He was _what_?" Con demanded.

"Arrested," Sally reiterated. "Don't you guys, you know, talk to each other about stuff like this?"

Con didn't have an answer to that, but he did step back and put his radio to his lips. Fenton instantly stepped into the space he had just vacated.

"Tell me exactly what happened," he said.

But the waitress's recollection was brief and totally lacking in any detail. Frank knew, without a doubt, that they wouldn't be getting the information they needed from her.

Then Con, having quickly ascertained that the arrest was bogus, stepped back into the fray and took over the questioning.

"How do you even know he was a cop?" His tone was hard and unyielding – it riled him beyond reason that the police were somehow being blamed for Joe's disappearance.

"He said so!" The blonde was beginning to get agitated, feeling as though she was indirectly being accused of something. "And I'd been going to call 911 when he…" She gestured towards Frank. "Told me to."

"Wait. You didn't call the police?" Frank asked with dismay; his own guilt beginning to fester. He had left Joe alone and now his brother was missing.

"No! I figured somebody else must have." The woman was now on the verge of tears, but nobody was prepared to afford her much sympathy. Getting details from her was like drawing blood from a stone. "Anyway, this car pulled up and the guy was shouting and waving his gun around…"

All of them tried hard not to dwell on the word 'gun' and it was Con who ground out the next question: "What did he say?"

"Cop stuff!" When the three men in front of her all looked ready to explode with exasperation, she quickly elaborated: "You know, like _'put your hands up'_ and _'get down on the ground'_…" She trailed off with a shrug.

"And Joe just complied?" Frank asked, uneasily.

"He looked… confused." Sally shrugged again.

"Of course he did," Frank murmured, the guilt cranking up another notch. Joe was suffering the after effects of a head injury – and Frank had left him. He conveniently ignored the truth that he had acted to save his father's life. At that moment, Joe was the only one who mattered.

He, his dad and Con split up then – speaking to the other patrons of the café. But Sally wasn't the only unhelpful witness they were destined to encounter: nobody else in the Haven Café could shed much light on exactly what had happened; even though the majority of them had been gawking through the window as the drama had unfolded outside.

They barely got any corroborating statements. The colour of the car was described as dark, or black, or dark blue, or green. The vague hope that someone might have noticed the licence plate was soon shot down.

The description of the man posing as a cop hadn't been any less vague: "He looked like a Fed." "An undercover cop." "He had those reflecting sunglasses." "He sounded like a cop."

The only thing everyone agreed on was the fact that he had a gun; and that gun had been pointed at Joe.

"So what now?" Frank stood with his hands on his hips and looked slowly around the café, ensuring that everyone had been questioned; that he hadn't missed a potentially valuable witness.

"Now," Con answered. "We get you and your dad checked out." He held up his hand to forestall any protest. "The EMTs are right outside."

"My dad, yeah." Frank easily acquiesced to that – head injuries weren't to be taken lightly. "But…"

"Frank, your hand." Con interrupted, softly.

Frank looked down sharply as Con's words seemed to reignite a pain that he had, until then, successfully ignored.

He was brutally reminded that, when he had deflected Houghton's knife to save his dad, he hadn't got away completely unscathed. Now the white handkerchief he had wrapped around his bleeding hand was soaked scarlet.

"It's nothing." He tried to shrug it off. Finding Joe was his only concern.

"Frank!" Con let his anger get the better of him. The Hardys were going through enough without adding self-sacrifice to their list of problems. He grabbed the young man's wrist and the makeshift bandage fell away.

Both Con and Frank himself got their first real look at the injury. His contact with the serrated blade had been fleeting, but still damaging. The fingers of his left hand were torn; the wound ragged and it was still bleeding sluggishly in spite of his attempts at field first-aid.

"It'll be fine." Frank stubbornly tried to insist.

"It won't." Con grabbed the other man's arm – and then he went for the low blow: "And if I can get you out to the ambulance, then your dad's more likely to go, too."

It was strange. Frank had thought his dad to be fine. Then he followed Con's pointed stare and saw his dad sitting slumped in a nearby chair. The PI looked as though he had aged about a thousand years and he wore despair around him like a shroud. And, though he kept his hands clasped in his lap, Frank could still see how much they were shaking.

Frank nodded slowly. There was nothing more they could do there, anyway.

* * *

Joe lay in the darkness and, with no way to track the passage of time, it felt like he had been there forever.

When the light eventually came, it came with such intense ferocity that Joe was instantly blind again. The brightness made his eyes stream and his head pound and it felt as though a thousand watts were being shined on him from every direction.

He instantly wished for darkness again.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he waited for them to adjust to the sudden illumination and then cautiously cracked them open again. The brightness was still painful, but no longer felt like needles being stabbed directly into his brain.

With a tremendous effort, Joe forced himself upright. He was staring at a concrete wall and he let his eyes drift slowly to the right. There was a bed – though 'bed' was a somewhat grandiose term. It was more of a metal frame, with a thin mattress, threadbare blanket and tatty pillow. It hardly looked comfortable.

Further around were a toilet and a hand basin; and beyond that another wall.

Moving awkwardly with his hands still bound, Joe turned around a full 360 degrees. Three walls made up the majority of his cell – and the sparse furniture it contained. The fourth wall was made up of metal bars: wall to ceiling and covering the entire length of the cell.

Recent memories assailed his still fuzzy mind: _"Police!"_ _"Put your hands up!"._ _"Get to your knees!"_

And now he was in what appeared to be a jail cell. If only he knew what he was supposed to have done.

* * *

Frank's hand was freshly bandaged and Fenton had a sterile gauze taped to the side of his head. Neither injury had even warranted a visit to the hospital, much less a stay of any length. But neither of them considered themselves particularly lucky.

Houghton was insanely dangerous and he had also been armed. Yet he hadn't done either of them serious harm. Yes, the thrown knife had the potential to kill Fenton, but that had merely been a ruse to facilitate his escape. No, Houghton hadn't been trying to hurt them. He had been a lure – and his plan had worked frighteningly well.

Now the two of them sat in Ezra Collig's office, back at the police station. Con also sat with them and Chief Collig himself prowled restlessly in the background. A half-eaten pizza occupied the centre of the table – a laughable excuse for lunch when nobody really felt like eating.

"Joe hasn't been taken by any law enforcement agency in the tri-states area," the Chief informed them, grimly. "I've called in as many favours as I can. Nobody can shed any light on this."

"He wasn't arrested." Fenton's own tone was grim. "It was Houghton."

"Dad…" Frank felt the need to voice the inevitable argument. It couldn't have been Houghton personally; the timing just wasn't consistent.

"He had an accomplice." His dad's voice forestalled the protest. "Houghton was the distraction. He wanted to get one of you alone."

"And we fell for it!" Frank exploded in anger – but that anger was only aimed inwards. He had left his brother alone; thus playing straight into the psycho's hands. And now Joe was missing.

"Wait a minute." As ever, Ezra's voice was the one of reason. "There was never any evidence that he worked with an accomplice before."

"There was never any evidence of a lot of things!" Fenton snapped back. "But he couldn't have worked alone – not all of the time. He has an accomplice and he has my son!"

"But why put himself in such danger?" Con was doing nothing more than thinking aloud, but he suddenly felt all eyes burning into him. He looked up – and then glanced away self-consciously.

"You want to elaborate on that, Riley?" Collig snapped – the tension was getting to all of them and the Chief was never one to mince his words; not even in the best of times.

A blush coloured Con's cheeks as he suddenly found himself at the centre of attention – and he sought the way to put into words his theory that was still only half-formed.

"Houghton being in that café can't have been a coincidence." He spoke slowly, giving his idea the chance to coalesce into something more. "He's not a stupid man – and yet he put himself in plain sight of all three of you. Then he let himself be seen."

Frank nodded slowly as he recalled the moment when the newspaper had been lowered and he'd looked into eerily familiar eyes – eyes that he had only ever seen in a photograph before.

"And then he ran," Fenton took over the fragmented train of thought. "And he had an accomplice waiting. But he can't possibly have known…"

"Yes he could." Frank felt almost breathless with the realisation of how well their enemy knew them. "Joe wasn't going anywhere, he was in no condition…" He swallowed hard as he thought about that – and then forced himself not to dwell on it. "And he knew how on edge he'd got us, especially with mom…" another pause – but this one was to swallow tears. "You went after him and I went after you. If I'd have gone first, you'd have done the same."

"He was targeting Joe." Fenton reached the inevitable conclusion. "Houghton had the chance to kill both of us, but he didn't. He didn't even try. He wanted Joe."

"And now he has him," Frank concluded, bleakly.

"I've had Enckleman canvassing the other businesses." Con tried for a positive spin. "Maybe we'll get some luck on the licence plate."

"More likely we'll just find the car abandoned again." Fenton dropped his head into his hands. He still hadn't fully reconciled to the death of his wife; now he was being forced to face the loss of a son. And the last time he'd spoken to his youngest… "Frank," he whispered. "Does he hate me?"

"No, dad." Frank answered with absolute truth. Joe didn't hate easily – and he reserved such an extreme emotion for those who truly deserved it. "He doesn't hate you."

"But why Joe?" Collig put the conversation back on track – even as he pretended to ignore the poignant look exchanged between father and son. "And why such an elaborate ruse? Why lure you both away and then have someone pose as a cop?"

"To make him do as he was told?" Con ventured. He knew Joe and no other ruse would have worked in a circumstance where both his brother and his dad might have been in danger.

"But why make him believe he was under arrest?" Frank hated this with a passion. He couldn't even imagine what his kid brother might be going through – and that bothered him more than anything else.

TBC


	11. Chapter 11

Synopsis: A fatal accident has consequences more far-reaching than anyone could ever imagine. In this fic, Frank is eighteen and Joe is seventeen.

**WARNING! CONTAINS THE DEATH OF A HARDY FAMILY MEMBER.**

Author's note: Disclaimer as in Chapter One. Thank you all so much for the reviews. By the way, this story is un-beta read, so all mistakes are mine alone.

Blame

Chapter Eleven

Joe dragged himself up onto the bed and tried to make further sense of his surroundings. On the other side of the bars was a room, but it was completely devoid of furniture.

Looking up, he also noted a security camera, though there was no red flashing light to indicate it might be recording. He didn't put too much stock in that, knowing that not every security system had such a giveaway.

To the right there was an alcove, or possibly a corridor and that must have led to the only door out. From his limited vantage, Joe couldn't actually see that door – and there were no windows. No wonder the darkness had been so absolute.

A loud noise interrupted his observations and then he shrank back onto the bunk as the sound of heavy footsteps drew inexorably closer.

After a moment, a man came into view and Joe could only stare at him – still enshrouded in utter confusion. It was the same man who had 'arrested' him; his gun a visible threat hanging from a shoulder holster.

The man didn't speak and Joe simply couldn't find his voice. It was nagging in the back of his mind that everything was feeling somehow wrong. He hadn't been read his rights; he hadn't even been told what he was supposed to have done. And wasn't he supposed to be allowed one phone call?

That thought, inevitably, made him think of Frank and his father. He couldn't help but remember the last time he had seen them – chasing after Graham Houghton – and he had no way of knowing their fate. He wondered if they were aware of his.

But he had no time to dwell on that thought, as his cell door was unlocked.

Joe had nowhere to go; nowhere to hide and no chance of trying to fight.

The man entered the cell and grabbed hold of his right arm, easily hauling him to his feet. Still no words were exchanged between them. Joe's mind was racing by now – having had a little time to recover and regroup his thoughts.

He now knew that this situation was very, very wrong. He just couldn't quite figure out exactly what _was_ going on.

He wanted to resist but not only was his captor armed, he was also much stronger than him.

Joe had no choice but to allow himself to be led from the cell. As he'd suspected there was a short corridor, barred by a heavy door that already stood ajar.

Then came another short passageway; at the end of which another door loomed in front of him. Joe's captor guided him through it, maintaining a hefty grip on his bicep.

There was somebody already in there and Joe paled as he faced a man whom he instantly recognised – in spite of only ever having caught a brief glimpse of him in the flesh before. Graham Houghton hadn't changed one little bit from the mug shot their father had made them study; the same man his brother and father had chased from the cafe.

He was a tall man and had a sturdy physique – bulging muscles attesting to him having spent long hours in the prison gym. His hair was long and unruly and he wore a day's growth of stubble. The expression on his face made him look mean and dangerous.

Joe knew for a fact that he was both.

A hefty shove from the man who had brought him to the room slammed Joe against the back wall. The breath was knocked out of him but, before he could recover, his original captor was on him again. Joe flinched, but the man merely fished a key out of his pocket and unlocked the handcuffs that had held him.

Somewhat surprised, Joe straightened up as the man backed away. He rubbed absently at his aching wrists.

Then Houghton grabbed something off the table – that Joe had only vaguely registered – and threw it at him. Instinct caused him to make the catch and then he frowned down in confusion at the bright orange material that he held.

"Strip off and put that on." Houghton growled.

Joe could only stare at him in incomprehension; wondering if he had maybe misheard the man, or maybe misunderstood.

"Strip off, or we'll do it." The felon took a menacing step forwards and the other man did the same. "And I can guarantee you won't enjoy it." He smiled humourlessly and his dark eyes narrowed. "Now strip."

Dropping the garment that Houghton had thrown at him, Joe slowly began to unbutton his shirt.

* * *

Reluctantly, Fenton and Frank went home. There was nothing more to be learnt from the witness statements – and Enckleman reported that the other local businesses hadn't been able to shed any further light on the mystery man who had been masquerading as a cop.

The description of the man remained frustratingly vague and they hadn't even got anything new on the car.

They had nothing else to go on.

Frank thought that it was somewhat incredible – but also wasn't overly surprised, when he thought about it logically. Though the drama of the fake arrest had unfolded in broad daylight and had been witnessed by dozens of people, every single one of them had taken what they'd seen at face value. And why not? Why suspect that the man was anything other than a cop?

Frank found that all of the witnesses had been more focussed on Joe than on the other man – and most especially not on the car he'd been driving. They wanted to see the alleged felon; to speculate on what he might have done wrong; to gawk at the unfortunate teenager and maybe even be thankful that it wasn't them being hauled away for their misdemeanours.

But, understandable or not, it still left them with precisely nothing to go on.

Con had suggested that they go back their house – citing that the kidnapper may try to contact them. Both Fenton had Frank had originally baulked, but they had to recognise that they had to return to the family home sooner or later – it didn't matter how much the thought of going there hurt them.

Con drove them, in his own car. Neither of the Hardys was in any condition to get behind the wheel and Fenton's car would be safe enough at the hospital until it could be collected.

They drove in silence; no radio was turned on and there definitely wasn't any attempt at conversation. Fenton and Frank were both lost in their own thoughts and Con was silently wishing for this whole nightmare to be over. He considered the Hardys to be his friends and he was suffering right along with them.

Then he pulled the car to a halt outside the Hardy home and switched off the engine. He looked over at Fenton, who occupied the passenger seat, but the Investigator was staring resolutely at his hands.

Con twisted around to look at Frank and found the boy staring out of the window towards his house. He cleared his throat, softly and Frank's eyes drifted around to meet his.

"Do you want me to come in?" he asked, not knowing why he made the offer – or what good it would do – but not wanting to simply leave them like this.

Frank shook his head and then reached out to open the car door. Fenton still didn't move.

"Dad?" Frank had one leg out of the car before he realised that he was the only one who had moved. When he received no response, he slid back into his seat and stared at the back of his father's bowed head. "Dad…" he tried again. "We're home."

"I can't… I don't…" Fenton's voice was barely a whisper. "I don't think I can go in there."

Con looked away when he heard those words. This was too personal; too private. And it was something he shouldn't be witness to. Not knowing what else to do, he slipped out of his car and then moved around to the front of it. Leaning against the hood, he gave the father and son the privacy they so clearly needed.

* * *

Joe felt his cheeks flame with embarrassment as he slowly stripped in front of the two men. Once his shirt was off, he toed off his sneakers and then his trembling hands moved towards the button of his jeans.

"Socks too," Houghton snapped – and Joe readily complied. Each moment that passed delayed his total humiliation – even if it was only by the briefest of seconds.

Moving slowly, he balled up each sock and placed them into his sneakers. That only left him in his jeans. Slowly, he peeled them from his hips – and then stood shivering, from both fear and cold, and wearing only his boxer shorts.

"Put it on, or stay like that." Houghton smiled at him and there was something feral in his eyes. "Your choice."

Joe, terrified, grabbed at the garment he'd dropped. It was a bright orange jumpsuit – the kind wore by prison inmates everywhere. He didn't care, didn't even wonder about it. The clothing offered some sort of protection and he desperately needed some, given how totally vulnerable he had been made to feel.

He stepped into the jumpsuit – hurriedly fastening the buttons up the front and feeling immense relief at being clothed again. The garment was short-sleeved and did little to ward off the chill in the small room and goosebumps stood up on his arms; but Joe knew it wasn't only the cold that put them there.

Trying to muster his courage, he glared at the two men.

"What do you want?" The question was addressed solely at Houghton, but it was the other man who reacted. The phoney police officer drew his gun and pointed it unerringly at his chest.

"Turn around and put your hands against the wall."

Even though he knew that this whole 'arrest' scenario was no more than a charade, Joe had no choice but to comply. Whoever was wielding it, the threat of the gun was still very real.

A moment later, his hands were again cuffed behind his back. As soon as he was restrained, he was whirled around to face his captors.

"This isn't real," he insisted, wondering what the hell was going on and why Houghton was treating him like a prison inmate. "What..?"

"Your father calls himself a Private Investigator." Houghton spoke over him and slowly stalked towards him. "He spouts off about law and justice and the truth."

"My dad…" Joe instantly leapt to his father's defence – but his protest was cut brutally short. Houghton's hand snaked out and grabbed hold of his jaw.

"Keep quiet or be gagged."

Joe shut his mouth – not doubting for a second that the man would follow through with his threat.

"Fenton Hardy hounded me for months," Houghton went on, his face mere inches from Joe's. "He hunted me down and then he locked me up – and he said that it was all in the name of justice."

Joe held his silence and just watched the man, fearfully. He was already aware of Houghton's history with his dad – he just didn't know what the escaped felon had in store for him. He only knew that it couldn't be good.

"But where is that justice now?" Houghton's eyes narrowed. "Now, when his son is the one who committed the crime, where the _hell_ is that justice?"

"You were driving the car your mother died in." The second man's voice was sudden and harsh in Joe's ear and he flinched away from it – he had been so totally focussed on Houghton: "That makes you responsible."

Houghton's next words forced Joe's attention straight back to him: "You killed your own mother and you are going to pay for it."

TBC


	12. Chapter 12

Synopsis: A fatal accident has consequences more far-reaching than anyone could ever imagine. In this fic, Frank is eighteen and Joe is seventeen.

**WARNING! CONTAINS THE DEATH OF A HARDY FAMILY MEMBER.**

Author's note: Disclaimer as in Chapter One. Thank you all so much for the reviews.

Blame

Chapter Twelve

After Con's exit from the car, Frank wasted no time in squeezing between the two front seats and easing himself into the driver's seat, in order to be closer to his dad.

His own thoughts were only with Joe. Though grief still hovered at the back of his mind, his fear for Joe had completely overshadowed it. He knew something of what Houghton had done; knew totally what he was capable of. And, though they had yet to find any solid proof, he knew that he had taken Joe.

"Dad…" He didn't know what to say, but he had to try.

"I'm sorry, but…" Fenton looked up then and stared bleakly towards their house. "It's all going to be the same."

"Dad?" Frank floundered – not knowing what his father was trying to say.

"It will all look the same as it did yesterday." Fenton's eyes misted over, but they remained firmly fixed on their front door. "Everything will be the same, as though nothing even happened. The lounge, the kitchen, the bedroom… It will be the same as it was before… And I can't walk into that. I can't…"

Frank sighed and looked away. He understood. His mom and Joe had gone shopping; a few short hours later, he and his dad had raced to the hospital. But the house… The house was exactly the same as it had been when everything was normal. Before their entire world had crashed down around them.

But if Joe's kidnapper was going to get in touch with them, then he would do it through their telephone. They needed to be in the house to take that call.

* * *

Somehow, Joe found himself back in his cell. No further words had been spoken. Joe was too stunned and disbelieving to barely form a coherent thought – and his captors had clearly got their message across.

His hands had been released, but he had no memory of the cuffs being removed. He was still reeling from what he had heard and could only sit on the bunk, staring numbly at the floor.

Slowly, fragmented thoughts began to break through the haze of shock that enshrouded him: What did they know? How could they know? Wasn't his mom's death an accident?

_What about dad?_

Joe tried to push that thought away but it was too late to un-think it. Once it was in his head, he simply couldn't shake it – or the confusion of memories it brought with it. His father had been so angry. _Joseph. _Even the way he had spoken his name had been distant and alien – almost an unspoken accusation.

Dropping his head into his hands, Joe tried to remember more clearly but his head was aching fiercely. _Joseph._ It was the only thing that stood out with any clarity in his mind. When his dad used his full name, it usually meant that he was in trouble.

But this time… This time, it was cold and interrogatory. _Condemnatory_. At least, that was how his tortured and confused mind was remembering it.

Joe collapsed back onto the bunk, using one arm to shield his eyes from the glaring lights that continued to assail him. Every ache and pain was making itself known to him and exhaustion rushed up to add to his misery.

Perhaps if he could just drift off to sleep, then maybe he would wake up and find the whole thing to be a terrible nightmare. He didn't believe it for a second, but he had to try something.

Sleep seemed an easy distraction.

Before he could even fully relax – could try to block out the voices constantly plaguing him – a deafening blast of noise split the silence of his cell. It wasn't music, it was just noise. Blaring, brutal, mind-piercing noise. And in amongst that noise, were some clearly defined words; screams amidst the cacophony: _killer_, _death_, _matricide _and _murder_.

Joe tried to block his ears, but it was impossible. The unrelenting racket, the damning words never allowed him a moment of respite.

* * *

Frank was beginning to fear that it was going to be an impossible task to get his father to enter their home. When he had tried to speak about the need to be by the telephone, should the kidnapper call, Fenton had merely shaken his head tightly.

"Dad." Frank had to keep trying. His brother's welfare – if not his life – might depend on it. "We don't know for sure who took Joe." He didn't want to think about Graham Houghton. He wanted to cling onto the slim hope that the timing of Joe's abduction had been a massive coincidence. That way, he could also hold onto a slim hope for his brother's future.

"Houghton has him." Fenton still didn't raise his head and his tone never changed from one of utter defeat. "You know who he is. You know what he's done. There won't be any phone call."

Frank bowed his own head. Yes, he did know Houghton. Though his crime was kidnapping, he never sent ransom demands; never wanted anything in return for his victims' release. His motive wasn't monetary, or political, or even – until now – driven by revenge. In fact, no clear motive had ever been identified – and it was impossible to understand how or why he chose his victims.

All they knew for certain was that those people were held for anything between two and four days. Then they were simply released. If Houghton stuck to his MO then Joe would eventually be returned to them, but Frank knew they could not afford to wait for that eventuality.

Houghton released them – but they came back broken.

As much as he didn't want to think about it, the knowledge came back to him anyway; everything that his father had told him and what he had learnt through his own research. And everything he remembered only served to chill him to his very core – and to increase the sense of urgency that was beginning to build in him.

Though Houghton had never actually killed anyone with his own hands, he did destroy lives. His lengthy sentence handed down by the courts had reflected his part in driving three people to suicide.

No, Houghton wasn't a killer but he was an insanely cruel man. He used mind games to take control; to toy with and manipulate his victims; to make them so desperate that the only escape they could see was to take their own lives.

And, if he had Joe…

Joe, who was already reeling emotionally and hurting physically, would prove to be the perfect prey for his twisted games.

He tried to push the thought away, but it had now taken full rein of his imagination and he was beginning to feel terrified for Joe – wherever he might be. He couldn't just sit on his hands, no matter how badly his dad might be hurting.

_Focus on the living._His thought from the hospital came back to him – but now he had cause to add to it: _And ensure they keep on living._

* * *

Joe felt like he was going to die. His head had been aching before they had even begun this latest form of torture. Now it had degenerated into something beyond agony.

He gritted his teeth and pressed his palms against his ears. It didn't even seem to make a dent in the volume level.

_Come on, Hardy!_ He silently admonished himself. _Doesn't Frank always say that you can sleep through anything? You know he's always right – not that you'd ever admit it to him! _

But his attempted pep-talk did nothing other than to cause a new pain to sear through him – but this pain was purely emotional: he had briefly wondered as to what happened after he'd sent Frank after their father; but now Houghton was here and clearly unharmed. All Joe could hope was that the felon had somehow eluded them.

He couldn't even contemplate the alternative: that there _had_ been a confrontation and Houghton came out on top. Surely if that had been the case, then his captor's would have said something; would have gloated; would have used it to torment him even further. But they had only mentioned his mom.

In a cruel piece of timing, that thought coincided exactly with the word _'matricide'_ screaming at him from the speakers. The damning words contained within the racket came sporadically and randomly – but that particular one felt like a bullet to his heart.

Every other conscious thought was sent fleeing from his head, as he was forcibly reminded of the chilling and bitter truth: he had been driving the car…

Desperate for at least a little respite – from both the racket and his own convoluted thoughts – he tried wrapping the threadbare pillow around his head; clamping down on it tightly to keep it in place. He thought that maybe – _maybe_ – the edge was taken off the raucousness. It wasn't enough.

The noise was still there; the words were still there. And so were his own recriminatory thoughts.

Tears sprung into his eyes and he was powerless to prevent them from spilling down his cheeks.

* * *

Frank had had enough. They were just wasting time sitting in Con's car – and it was time that Joe didn't have.

"Alright, maybe it is Houghton," he conceded – knowing, in his heart, that that supposition was true. "So we have to start looking. And we're not going to find him by sitting here!"

Fenton's only response was to stare desolately out of the window towards his front door – and another minute shake of his head.

"What, dad?" Frank had to snap his dad out of it and he wasn't below using a dirty tactic. Somewhere a clock was ticking for Joe. "Are you grieving for him already? He isn't dead, dad! Joe isn't dead yet and we have to help him! You know what Houghton will do and we have to stop that. I can't lose…"

"Don't say it!" At last that provoked a reaction. It was raw and emotional – but it was a reaction. It was the best Frank could have hoped for.

"Dad, you have to help me." Tears filled Frank's eyes as he unashamedly begged. He couldn't do this alone. "Help me find Joe."

Fenton squeezed his eyes briefly shut and then looked back out at the house again. "It's going to be so hard," he confessed quietly – and it was clear that they were no longer talking about Joe. "It feels like she's going to be in there waiting for me."

"I know, dad." And Frank did understand. The house on Elm Street had never before felt so unlike a home.

TBC


	13. Chapter 13

Synopsis: A fatal accident has consequences more far-reaching than anyone could ever imagine. In this fic, Frank is eighteen and Joe is seventeen.

**The warning has been removed in response to a reviewer's concerns ;-)**

Author's note: Disclaimer as in Chapter One. Thank you all so much for the reviews. SORRY for the delay in posting this chapter. Work got in the way and then it was my birthday yesterday! I'll try not to leave you hanging so long for the next one.

Blame

Chapter Thirteen

Something – he couldn't identify exactly what – but _something_ in either Frank's words or tone got through to Fenton.

He tore his gaze away from the house and met his eldest son's eyes. Then he simply nodded his head.

The decision made, the hurdle overcome, Fenton and Frank opened their car doors simultaneously. As they did, Con straightened up from his slouched position on the hood of the car. His eyes immediately sought out Frank's.

The teenager jerked his head towards the house – silently requesting assistance when he couldn't speak out loud. He didn't want to say the words that might undermine his dad – but they would need the help of the Bayport PD and Con Riley was one of their best.

Fenton didn't acknowledge either of them. With a new found resolution he marched up to the front door and put his key in the lock.

The alarm blared and Fenton froze. He had once carried his wife over that very threshold.

Then Frank brushed passed him, punched in the code and silenced the alarm. Fresh guilt crept up on Fenton. Why was he having such a hard time with priorities?

_Your wife or your child. You choose._

It was an age-old nightmare; one he'd had since he'd first learnt they were expecting their first child. It had once held the power to terrify him, but not any more. Now there was no choice to be made – he no longer had a wife. Now it was a battle between his past and his present; the dead and the living; the hopeless and…

It wasn't a choice – not really – but Fenton chose Joe.

"My office," he snapped.

Frank and Con exchanged a glance; both relieved to note that Fenton Hardy was back to firing on all cylinders again.

* * *

Frank was at a distinct disadvantage out of the three of them, when it came to knowing about Houghton. His dad had obviously worked on the case and, as soon as the man had escaped from jail, Con had pulled his file and learnt everything there was to know about the case. Frank, as did Joe, only knew the meagre facts that his father had supplied him with and what he was able to track down on the Internet.

He knew there was a lot he didn't know; things that would never appear in a newspaper and would always be hidden away in a confidential police report. Only first-hand knowledge or access to said report would tell him _everything_.

Frank needed details; he needed to know everything there was to know. There might be something – some small clue he wasn't aware of – that could be the key to finding Joe. The trouble was he didn't think his dad would feel too much like sharing some of those details; not considering that the man's crimes might currently be being inflicted on his youngest son.

Frank hadn't found anything regarding exactly what had happened to those unfortunate people during their actual periods of captivity – and he found that to be more than a little disturbing. What, exactly, did Houghton do to them in order to destroy them so completely?

He knew that he had to choose his questions carefully and he started with one that had been nagging at him since back at the precinct:

"Dad, you said to Chief Collig that there had never been much evidence of anything; what did you mean by that?" Then he couldn't help but add: "If there was no evidence, then how did you catch him – much less convict him?"

Fenton sighed and rubbed one hand wearily across his face. He had known that this conversation was inevitable, but was still reluctant to share too many details. It wasn't that he didn't trust Frank; he just didn't want him obsessing over what might be happening to Joe instead of focussing fully on the manhunt. He was having a hard enough time doing that himself.

"Sometimes a cop, or an investigator, just gets lucky," he answered eventually. "Houghton was only ever convicted on three counts of kidnapping and unlawful imprisonment."

"But dad, what he did to those people…" Frank was fishing for details, but he needed to know. "How..?"

"Houghton never confessed to anything," Fenton answered – knowing what his son was demanding: how _did_ you drive someone to suicide? "His victims either couldn't – or wouldn't – talk. He himself never once spoke of what he did – not under interrogation; not in court; not even at sentencing. So a lot of what we have is just theory and conjecture; at least about what happened to those people whilst he held them captive." That wasn't strictly true – their theories had been well founded, but there were some things Frank would never know.

* * *

The raucous noise stopped as suddenly as it had started, but the lights still did not go out. Joe was on the verge of total despair; pain and exhaustion threatening to completely overwhelm him; but even though the noise was gone, he could still hear it reverberating around his skull.

He didn't even realise that he was no longer alone until he heard his cell door slam violently shut. Jerking upright, he looked around wildly – totally disoriented by lights and the noise. Then his eyes alighted on the fake police officer, standing outside his cell looking in.

"When you're given food you will eat it," the man said, coldly. "Or else we will stop feeding you. It's not our intention to kill you, but if you should die…" He shrugged, as though that eventuality was of no concern to him. Then he turned and walked away.

Joe stared at the space he had just vacated and then his eyes drifted slowly downwards. There, on the inside of the cell door, were a paper plate and cup – guaranteed that they could not be utilised as some sort of weapon. He slid off the bunk and approached them suspiciously. He didn't doubt for a second that his kidnapper would make good on his threat, but his appetite wasn't exactly demanding sustenance.

Then he realised that he had no need to worry on that count. The plate held only two slices of unbuttered brown bread and the cup was just water. If he hadn't been so thoroughly miserable, then Joe might have smiled sardonically at the cliché of typical prison fare – but there was no mirth, dark or otherwise, within him.

He retrieved his meagre meal and moved back to his bunk. He was thirsty and the water was actually welcome, but he also forced himself to choke down the bread. He hadn't eaten at all that day – if it was, indeed, still the same day – and he did recognise the need to keep his strength up.

Thinking of what day it might be added another worry onto Joe's already laden shoulders. His watch was gone and he had absolutely no way of monitoring the passage of time. He couldn't even hazard a guess as to how long he had already been in captivity.

Sighing, Joe lay back down on the bed – again using one arm to cover his eyes. The second he did so, the noise blasted out again.

* * *

The entire Bayport PD was on the lookout for Joe, for Houghton and for the mystery man who'd masqueraded as a cop. So far, there had been nothing to report.

Houghton's parents' house – where he had taken his original victims – had been sold on and was currently occupied by a family of five. None of his other former hangouts had turned up a thing. The phoney cop lead was a needle in a haystack and the search for the car an even bigger bust.

In short, they had absolutely nothing to go on.

Fenton was thoroughly sickened, if not overly surprised. Up until that morning, there hadn't been a single confirmed sighting of Houghton since his escape from prison – and now he had simply and effectively disappeared again.

He couldn't help but remember the last time, almost twelve years ago. They had got lucky that time – and, though he could pray for history to repeat itself, he didn't hold out much hope of pure dumb luck coming to their aid again.

No, it was up to them and they had to move fast. One of Houghton's victims had been released after only two days – and yet still enough damage had been done to cause the young man to throw himself under a train.

He wouldn't let Joe go through such trauma and he definitely wouldn't be mourning another member of his family. Though Fenton wanted to believe that Joe would be strong enough – that his son, who was following so admirably in his own footsteps, would never succumb to psychological torture – he knew the case too well; knew exactly what Houghton was capable of.

In normal times, Joe would have had a hard time resisting the man's twisted games. Houghton's original victims were considered to be normal and well-balanced individuals. But then their abductor had found their deepest fear, their darkest secret or their biggest shame and had turned it against them. He had found their breaking point and then pushed them beyond it.

And Fenton knew that everyone had a breaking point. It was only too easy to imagine what Joe's would be right now.

Fenton inwardly winced as he thought about his own part in making Joe believe that he might be responsible for the death of his mother. Though they had managed to speak about it after the anger of Joe's hospital room, Houghton had disrupted their attempted reconciliation. Joe had said sorry, but Fenton never got the chance to.

He had also asked Frank whether Joe hated him and he remembered his immense relief when his eldest son answered in the negative. Now that relief felt bitter, even in his memory. The question should have been: _does Joe think I hate him?_ Fenton couldn't answer – and with that thought came the knowledge that he had played directly into Houghton's hands.

He was hoping that Joe would be strong enough – but how could he be when his own father had provided some of the ammunition needed to break him?

Unknowingly, he silently echoed Frank's thought that a clock was ticking against them. But they didn't even have a place to start looking.

TBC


	14. Chapter 14

Synopsis: A fatal accident has consequences more far-reaching than anyone could ever imagine. In this fic, Frank is eighteen and Joe is seventeen.

**WARNING: (Yes, I do believe it warrants another one!) There is mention of a child's death. Please DO NOT READ if this is likely to upset or offend you. And Houghton is a sick and twisted individual, in case you hadn't noticed! Please consider yourselves warned. **

Author's note: Disclaimer as in Chapter One. Thank you all so much for the reviews. Honestly, you are amazing and make this endeavour a real pleasure!

Blame

Chapter Fourteen

"Dad?" Frank had to say something; his father had been staring off into space for some minutes. He could see the guilt weighing heavily on him but they simply did not have time for this. He still needed answers: "Dad, how did you catch him the last time?"

"He made a mistake." It was Con who answered the question – but Frank held up one hand, silencing him.

He needed his dad to be back on board with them. Ironically, it was Con's words that snapped Fenton out of his stupor.

"Con!" There was a definite warning in Fenton's tone.

"Dad!" Frank's protest was immediate, as the actual words Con had said registered in his mind. _A mistake?_ How could his dad not want him to know about it?

"Yes he made a mistake, Frank." Fenton's tired voice answered his unspoken question. "But…" He paused, wondering how he could possibly explain what was essentially only a gut instinct – that Houghton would never repeat such a mistake. "His mistake was in his choice of victim."

"The last one, Emily Hudson." Frank easily remembered the anomaly with that victim. Almost a month passed before she took her own life – desperate enough to stick her head into her gas cooker. "Why, dad? She went back to her life. What happened to her?"

Fenton sighed. He really didn't want to get into this – didn't want to offer even one iota of hope. He knew it would turn out to be false hope and so he tried to play it down as much as he could: "Her husband never let her out of his sight. He was a real rock for her and we genuinely thought that she would survive."

The explanation still did nothing to enlighten Frank. "So what did he do?" he pressed. "What happened – after a month – to make her do that?"

Fenton and Con exchanged a look. This was one of the most horrific aspects of the case; but it had ultimately led to Houghton's downfall.

"He sent them a tape." Fenton didn't look at Frank as he answered. "On it, Emily was begging Houghton to let her unborn baby die in peace – painlessly. She took, or was forced to take, Misoprostol. That's how we caught him. It's a very specialist drug to get hold of."

"Did he kill her child?" Frank was beyond appalled. Such cruelty was beyond comprehension.

"Emily, like the other victims, wouldn't speak about what happened. Maybe they couldn't remember, maybe they were threatened…"

"Dad, the baby?" Frank pressed.

"Misoprostol is used to induce abortions," Fenton eventually answered, with obvious reluctance. "We don't know what he did to make her so desperate." He felt sick at the mere memory. "But she lost the baby."

* * *

The noise stopped for a second time and Joe sat up, abruptly. The last time, the silence had coincided with a 'meal'. This time, it coincided with Houghton appearing outside his cell.

There was a rattle of keys and then the cell door swung open.

"Come on!" Houghton sounded irritated; impatient.

Joe got to his feet and staggered slightly. For the first time, he wondered as to whether his food or drink had been drugged. If so, it was too late to do anything about it. He took a hesitant step forwards.

"Move it!" Houghton lost all pretence of patience and marched into the cell, grabbing hold of Joe's left arm.

Joe reacted instinctively. He was used to danger; wasn't cowed by threats. And, this time, his hands weren't bound. And if he was being drugged, he knew that he had to act before those drugs took too firm a hold.

Feigning compliance, he took one step forwards and then he struck. He threw his whole bodyweight into Houghton, slamming him against the bars of the cell.

Houghton took a pained breath – used it to cry out a name, _Carl_ – and then Joe used momentum to crash into him again. His assailant collapsed, moving feebly.

Joe didn't waste a single second. He didn't know how badly he had hurt Houghton and wasn't about to delay to find out. This might be his only chance of escape.

He never, for a moment, believed that Houghton's gasped cry had been heard and he needed to gain some distance before his assailant recovered sufficiently to call out more loudly for help.

The outer door was thankfully unlocked and Joe yanked it open. Then he found himself staring down the business end of a gun.

It wasn't possible that Houghton had been heard, but Joe had forgotten about the security camera. Just because there was no flashing light didn't mean that it wasn't recording – or being monitored.

The man holding the gun was, unsurprisingly, his original kidnapper. At least now Joe had a name to put to the face, but that was very small consolation. Carl was smiling evilly at him from behind the weapon – and Joe's abortive escape attempt was thwarted.

The man moved quickly and pain exploded in Joe's jaw as the gun barrel connected solidly with it. He fell, heavily – darkness clawing at the edge of his vision and automatic tears filling his eyes.

He could offer no resistance as he was wrestled onto his stomach; barely felt the cuffs, yet again, encircling his wrists.

Then his pain was pushed to the back of his mind, as Houghton's voice growled in his ear:

"Interrogation time, killer."

* * *

They dragged him back to the room where he had been forced to strip. This time, there was a chair set a small distance away from the table and Joe was thrust into it. The ache in his jaw hadn't abated one little bit. It pulsed in time with his rapidly beating heart.

Houghton moved to stand directly in front of him and Carl stood behind the chair, keeping an achingly firm grip on his left shoulder.

"So." Houghton leant back against the edge of the table and folded his arms across his chest. "Are you ready to save us all a whole lot of time and confess to your crimes?"

Joe went to answer, but was forced to flinch away when the ache in his jaw flared into genuine pain. He wondered if it was broken. He shook his head, slowly – partially in negation at Houghton's question and partially to try and clear his befuddled mind.

"Innocent men don't run," Carl growled from behind him – his clawed fingers tightening cruelly into the muscles of his shoulder.

"The man has a point." Houghton straightened up and began to pace; his eyes never leaving Joe. "If you are innocent, why would you try to escape?"

Joe blinked at him, wondering if he was possibly losing his mind. This wasn't real; he wasn't actually under arrest; wasn't being held in a State facility. He had been kidnapped by these goons – of course he would try to escape. Anyone in their right mind would, given half an opportunity. He worked his jaw, trying to loosen some of the stiffness that was setting in. But then Houghton spoke again before he could formulate a suitable response.

"Alright, if you don't feel like talking – how about I talk and you can correct me if I go wrong." He stopped pacing and leant forwards, putting his face very close to Joe's. "You killed your mother. Period." Then he straightened back up, folded his arms and just waited.

* * *

"Dad, you told me that Houghton had never killed anybody." Frank was angry and it was reflected in his tone. He didn't like being lied to at any time – but now it bore direct relation to Joe and added a terrifying new dimension to his possible fate.

Fenton didn't immediately respond. His own thoughts had taken a very dark turn and he didn't fully trust himself to speak. Luckily, Con was there to come to his rescue.

"New York doesn't have any Foetal Homicide laws," the young cop answered quietly. "Legally, he didn't…"

"Dammit, Con, that's just semantics!" Frank exploded. It didn't matter a jot whether the State laws classed an unborn child as a person in their own right or not. Dead was still dead. "He's not supposed to be a killer!"

"But he is, anyway, isn't he?" Fenton chose that moment to speak up and the look he aimed at Frank was dark and brooding. "He became a killer when he…"

Frank stood up abruptly, his chair scraping noisily on the wooden floor and interrupting his father's words. He stalked across the office and then stopped; turning to nail his father with an accusatory glare.

"I can't believe I never even wondered about that!" he snapped, dragging one hand through his already unruly hair. "You were so sure, dad – so sure! You knew that Houghton killed mom." He shook his head, knowing it was worry over Joe that had made him miss the inconsistency in his dad's behaviour. "You told us he wasn't a killer, but then you were certain he killed mom. What else did he do, dad? _What else?!_"

"He wasn't a killer – not in the eyes of the law," Fenton answered tightly. He rubbed a shaky hand over his eyes as he struggled to find his composure. "I never lied to you."

"Dad, it doesn't matter." Frank forced himself to calm down. He knew they didn't have time to argue, but he wasn't about to let this go completely just yet. It was too important. "I just want to know what you think he's going to do now."

"Frank…" He didn't even want to think about it, much less put his deepest fears into words.

"Five minutes ago, I didn't believe him to be capable of murder!" Frank's own fears were suddenly brought out into the open. "Do you think Joe's even still alive?"

Fenton opened his mouth, intending to offer reassurance that Houghton's revenge wouldn't be so anticlimactic, but no words emerged.

Houghton revelled in finding peoples' breaking points. Now Laura was dead and Joe was missing. Maybe Houghton hadn't taken Joe in order to find the teenager's breaking point – maybe he was, instead, pushing Fenton until he reached his.

He looked at Frank and knew that he could not lie: "I don't know, son," he said – and saw the terror he felt mirrored in his eldest son's eyes.

TBC


	15. Chapter 15

Author's note: Disclaimer as in Chapter One. Thank you all so much for the reviews. See previous chapters for any relevant warnings.

Blame

Chapter Fifteen

Joe's eyes were focussed on the floor and they had been for quite some time. Houghton's words were still ringing in his ears and he couldn't quite understand why they were bothering him so much.

Though his memories of the crash were still more than a little hazy, he did cling onto the memory of strong and assertive words from his brother: _It wasn't your fault! It was a stolen car running a red light! That's whose fault it was!_

"It was an accident…" The words were mumbled around the pain in his face – but he was still heard.

"An accident that you crashed the car?" Houghton leapt gleefully onto the words. "Or an accident that you killed her?"

Joe looked up and confusion clouded his eyes. The fog in his mind was getting thicker and it was getting harder and harder to concentrate. Again, a brief fear of possibly having been drugged flashed through his mind.

"Are you saying that her murder wasn't premeditated?" Houghton's interrogation continued.

"No!" The denial was out of his mouth before he could prevent it. "I mean… I didn't… It wasn't my fault."

"Vehicular manslaughter? Reckless endangerment? Death by dangerous driving?" Houghton ticked off the points on his fingers. "Which one was it?"

"None of them!" At last, Joe found some coherence. "Somebody ran the lights." It wasn't a memory, but it _was_ what both Frank and Con had told him – and they wouldn't lie about something so important. "They hit our car."

"Oh yes, the Buick." His captor openly smirked at him. "And how did I know it was a Buick?" He paused, but not long enough for Joe to find an answer. "I was driving, Joseph. I was driving the Buick and it was just a fender-bender; my car barely had a scratch on it. Nobody should have been killed."

Joe could do nothing other than gape up at him. Words about his mom not wearing her seatbelt reared up in his mind.

"It wasn't my fault," he tried to insist – striving to hold onto the assurances Frank had offered him. But Frank's voice was fading in his mind and Houghton's accusations were getting louder.

* * *

Con brought a pot of coffee into the office, though neither Fenton nor Frank noticed him leave to fetch it. It was a welcome distraction and they both nodded their thanks – and not only for the coffee.

His brief disappearance gave the father and son some time alone; affording them the opportunity to gather themselves and try to get past the fear that their search might prove to be a futile one. To find some optimism or, at the very least, some hope.

Con sat back down in his own chair and sought the right words to say. He needed to deflect the Hardys back onto the path they should be following; needed to make them think like investigators again – because he knew that, at the top of their game, they were both the best in their field. And he needed a better tactic than mere coffee.

He heaved a deep sigh and leant forwards. He knew what _should_ be done – what the police, his colleagues, _would_ be doing – but he asked the question anyway: "Where should we start?"

Before either of them could answer, there was an ill-timed ringing of the doorbell.

Con wasn't a part of what happened next, but he was witness to it. Fenton reached out with his right hand and Frank also extended his. Silently they clasped forearms, each seeking strength from the other; and a mutual understanding – and horror – was exchanged between them. It was past midnight and a visitor at this hour was never going to be a harbinger of good news.

"I'll go."

They spoke simultaneously, even as they both rose from their chairs. Their eyes met and an unspoken agreement was reached. Frank followed his father out of the office and into the main house and Con trailed reluctantly in their wake.

Though he didn't want to intrude, he had a feeling he might be needed.

Then Fenton disabled the alarm and yanked the door open – and every heart skipped a beat.

Their late night visitor was Chief Collig.

* * *

"We found an abandoned Taurus. It was the car they used to abduct Joe." Collig spoke without even waiting to be greeted, much less invited in. When the front door opened, he was confronted with two identical expressions of utter horror – three if you included Con Riley, who hovered just behind the father and son.

Fenton closed his eyes and Frank visibly sagged. It was easy for anyone to imagine just what had been going through their minds when the Police Chief turned up on their doorstep at such an ungodly hour. His words, at least, took away every dreadful scenario they couldn't help but imagine.

"Ezra…" Fenton recovered first and took a step back, silently inviting the Chief in.

No further words were spoken until they were all, again, seated in the office. Con poured a fourth cup of coffee but, like the other three, it went largely ignored.

"How can you be so sure it's the right car?" Frank asked. Though abandoned cars weren't exactly common around Bayport, they weren't exactly unheard of either.

"Fenton, Frank." Collig looked at each of them in turn. "There were a number of blonde hairs in the rear foot well of the car. Forensics confirmed they're Joe's."

"Was there any..?" Fenton swallowed hard and then looked Collig straight in the eyes. "Was there any blood?"

"No," Ezra lied easily. There had been a tiny amount of blood – miniscule, in fact and so there was no need for him to mention it. Joe hadn't been seriously injured when he'd been put into the car and that was all they needed to know. "But we did get a fingerprint."

"What?!" Fenton and Frank both demanded at exactly the same time.

"A fingerprint." Collig hadn't deliberately withheld that choice piece of information – he just wanted to offer the reassurance, as much as he could, about Joe's wellbeing first. "Joe's kidnapper must have needed to adjust the seat position, because that's where we got the print from. He forgot to wipe it when he did the rest of the car."

"Tell me he's in the system," Frank breathed – mostly to himself, but also almost as a prayer.

"Carl Stafford," the Chief supplied. "He's a thug from New York City; cited for petty theft and vandalism, at first. Then he progressed to extortion and assault. According to NYPD, he was only ever the muscle – never the brains."

"And he's exactly the same this time." Fenton bit his lip and bowed his head. "He'll be holed up wherever Houghton is. He'll do exactly what Houghton tells him to."

"And what exactly is that?" Frank's tone was as bleak as his father's had been. "He's been convicted for assault? What did he do? What's he capable of?"

"Stop." Con had been thinking the word ever since they had all re-entered the office. Then he felt three pairs of eyes on him and knew that he had inadvertently spoken aloud. A blush coloured his cheeks, but he pressed gamely onwards: "You have to stop doing this."

"Riley?" Collig sounded less than impressed. "Stop doing what?"

Con couldn't retort with any intensity towards his Chief. He wasn't even sure he'd be able to continue without stammering. So he spoke, instead, to the Hardys: "Stop asking the wrong questions!"

"Con…" Frank began to say something and there was something close to anger in his eyes.

"Why aren't you asking about his family?" Con pressed on, undaunted. He'd been wanting to turn Fenton and Frank's mindset back to that of investigator and now he had his chance. "What about his friends; associates; regular haunts? Why aren't you asking those questions?"

"Riley…" Collig's voice ground out a warning.

"No!" If Con's own passions hadn't been running high, then he'd have been mortified about, essentially, yelling at his superior. "Tell me what lines of investigation you're pursuing. Tell me…"

"They're not pursuing anything Riley!" Collig barked with utter authority. "They are civilians and this is a police matter. They…"

"Like hell!" When Fenton stood this time, his chair crashed over onto the floorboards. "I will find my son and nobody – _nobody_ – will tell me that I can't even try to look."

"You are witnesses and you are also victims." Collig's tone was equally as heated. "I shouldn't have even told you about the car, or the suspect."

"But you did!" Fenton retorted. "And you can't expect me to just ignore it! I will find my son – and you can help me or not. But you can't keep me away from this!"

Ezra sighed. He had hoped that the PI would simply ask a few questions; maybe even demand to be kept up to date with the details of the case; possibly even have a few suggestions of his own. He hadn't expected Fenton to react so bull-headedly. That was Joe's forte.

He had thought he'd been dealing with the two more level-headed members of the Hardy family, but he had been wrong. They were all equally passionate when one of their own was in danger.

He sighed again. He hadn't wanted it t come to this, but he had no choice. He had to break his final, devastating piece of news.

"The FBI knows that Houghton's here. He's an escapee from a State facility." Collig looked at them apologetically. "It's their case now."

* * *

"Tell me about the crash." Houghton was relentless. He stalked back and forth in front of Joe and his eyes never once left the miserable young man. "Tell me how you lost control of your car."

Joe shook his head. Even though the pain in his jaw was receding – even though he'd managed to utter a few words – he couldn't find any response. To his consternation, he was beginning to doubt everything he had to hold onto: Frank's words; Con's assurances; even the knowledge about the Buick.

It didn't matter. Houghton barely gave him the time to think before he launched into him again: "It was only ever meant to be a scare. It was a prang. It was… nothing. Why did you kill your mom?"

"I didn't…" The words were gasped out on a trembling voice and held absolutely no conviction.

"You hit the gas instead of the brake! You lost control! You spun into a damned telegraph pole!" Houghton thrust his face into Joe's. "You've got a licence – what do you do when your car goes into a spin?"

Joe's eyes filled with tears as the brutal words were hurled at him. What _did_ you do when a car went into a spin? His heart began to race. He didn't know; couldn't answer the question.

He barely heard Houghton's instruction to Carl to 'take him back to his cell'and it was in a state of complete numbness that he meekly allowed himself to be led. He couldn't control the thoughts that were ricocheting around his head – and his lack of memory about the actual crash was sending those thoughts careening down a dangerous path:

_What if I did hit the gas instead of the brake? What if I panicked? Why couldn't I control the spin? Why did mom die?"_

The cuffs were released as he was pushed into the cell, but Joe barely noticed. He staggered towards the bed and collapsed onto it. The moment he did, the infernal noise from before started up again, ensuring that sleep was out of the question.

But his own convoluted thoughts had guaranteed that anyway.

TBC


	16. Chapter 16

Author's note: Disclaimer as in Chapter One. Thank you all so much for the reviews. See previous chapters for any relevant warnings.

Blame

Chapter Sixteen

Without warning, the noise was silenced and the lights went out. Joe could have cried with relief. The formless noise interspersed with the damning words gave him no chance to think; no time to get his thoughts in order; no opportunity to try and actually _remember_.

All he had were the memories of what he had been told – and they were as conflicting as they were confusing.

Given peace and darkness, he finally had the chance to just try and think.

_Come on, Joe,_ he admonished himself. _Remember! You must have seen the Buick; must have swerved. That's why you went into a spin! Remember!_

"_**I have trained you in observation; in memory retention and recollection."**_

Joe gasped out loud and sat bolt upright on the bunk. That had been his father's voice – and that was also a memory. Not a confused and uncertain memory, but one that stood out stark and clear in his mind.

There _were_ techniques – techniques he knew well – and the first of those was to be calm and relaxed, in order to aid the memory. Joe took a deep, steadying breath.

And then the lights came back on.

* * *

Silence descended on Fenton's office, but it was destined not to last very long.

"Dammit," Fenton cursed softly – almost under his breath. Then, louder, demanded: "What will they do?"

"They're on a manhunt," Collig answered reluctantly, shaking his head as he did. "Escapees are bad publicity – especially when they go on to re-offend."

"So they will care about what happens to Joe?" Frank demanded. He'd been harbouring some totally unfounded prejudices concerning the FBI: that they would only care about 'getting their man'; that they would see his brother as collateral damage, or an ancillary casualty; that Joe was merely a statistic to them.

"Of course they care!" Collig's response was sharp – as though he had read Frank's mind and was offended it would ever be considered that he would allow such a thing to happen. "Nothing's changed. Finding Joe is still the priority."

Frank felt a brief rush of immense relief – but then it was instantly quashed as his father snorted out a breath. That one sound was full of contempt and disbelief.

"As long as they bag Houghton at the same time," Fenton muttered, darkly.

"Dad…" His father's words were immensely disturbing and Frank, not having had many dealings with the FBI, sought some reassurance.

But none was forthcoming as Fenton ignored his attempted interruption and instead kept his attention focussed solely on Chief Collig: "Do you know who?" he demanded.

"Special Agents Adrian Mason and Thomas Carr." Collig answered, somewhat reluctantly. "They're heading down from DC and will be here in the morning." The Chief glanced at his watch – realising, ruefully, that it was already morning. "They're going to want to talk to you."

* * *

Joe knew what was happening. The lights, the noise, their randomness and unpredictability were classic signs of enforcing sleep-deprivation. It was a well used technique for interrogation and torture.

But, though he knew it was happening, he couldn't counteract its effects. His eyes burned, his head ached and he wanted to cry as his exhaustion demanded that he rest – and yet outside stimuli denied him the escape.

At least this time he was spared the noise – and the damning words it bombarded him with. But the lights were so bright, they only intensified his headache and not even burying his face into the ratty pillow could block them out completely.

Plus, he was so totally on edge waiting for the noise to blast out again, he couldn't relax even marginally.

When sound did come, it wasn't the blaring noise he was anticipating. Instead it was the clang of his cell door and Joe sat up, sharply. He hadn't heard the outer door open – hadn't even heard any approaching footsteps.

He turned around just in time to see Carl's retreating back.

Joe frowned as his gaze travelled downwards and settled on more bread and water that had been left for him. They had left him another 'meal' – how long had he been there? Were they even following standard meal times? If so, was this breakfast, lunch or dinner?

He remembered his previous feelings of wooziness and again had cause to fear whether he was being drugged.

Fresh despair settled over Joe as he surveyed the meagre fare. He'd been warned that if he didn't eat then he would stop being fed – and he presumed the same was true about drinking the water. A fact that Frank had once told him leapt back into his mind: _three minutes without air, three days without water, three weeks without food. _That was the limit of the human body.

Joe knew that the minimum time Houghton held his victims captive was only two days – and he could survive that. But the maximum, thus far, had been four. Four days without food would be crippling and painful, but it wouldn't kill him. Four days without water would.

So maybe if he just drank the water?

Joe sighed. Surely it was easier to drug a cup of water than a slice of bread. And he wouldn't survive his captivity without water.

This internal argument with himself wasn't exactly helping his headache either.

Knowing that he was quite probably playing right into his captors' hands, Joe decided that his only option was to both eat and drink. If nothing else, the food might help to keep his waning strength up.

And if he was being drugged, then there was precious little he could do about it.

When he'd finished, he glanced towards the toilet – but was hideously mindful of the camera in the corner of the room. He knew he was being watched and decided that he didn't need to go all that badly. Then, for lack of anything else to do, he lay back down on his bed.

* * *

Somehow, both Fenton and Frank got some sleep. It should have been impossible, but exhaustion won out.

Fenton never once considered going to the bedroom he had shared for so many years with his beloved wife. He simply stretched out on the couch in his office.

Frank had intended to retire to his own room. Then he took a moment to open the connecting doors between his and Joe's room and the shared bathroom that separated them. He looked in on his brother's space – surprisingly tidy for the younger boy – and then found himself missing Joe with an intensity that was almost physically painful.

He didn't know where Joe was; didn't know how he was suffering. And now the FBI was stepping in to take over their case. Though the Bayport PD was indulgent towards the Hardys being involved in certain cases, the Feds were guaranteed not to be so accommodating. He would be forcibly removed from the search for his own brother.

It felt like one hell of a betrayal.

Frank wandered over to Joe's bed. In keeping with the tidiness of his room, the bed was freshly made. Frank idly wondered how much his mom had to do with that.

She nagged Joe incessantly; she cajoled, pleaded and threatened. Sometimes it worked and Joe would give his room a cursory tidy. Other times, she simply gave up and had a tidy round herself, before the mess got totally out of control.

A sob suddenly rose in his chest as his mom's death was suddenly, brutally shoved back into the forefront of his mind.

If Joe's room got messy from now on, then it would stay messy.

Though they all had their share of chores – and, for the most part, carried them out – Laura was the one who'd held it all together. She was the one who had made the house their home.

Frank kicked off his shoes and, fully dressed, stretched out on top of Joe's bed and waited for sleep to claim him.

* * *

They both did sleep – though both would have wagered it to be an impossibility. Then, with the morning came the FBI.

It was Con Riley who brought them to the Hardy house and, though not meaning to be disrespectful, both Fenton and Frank did a double take when they answered the door to him.

"Where's Ezra?" Fenton asked, trying – but failing – not to sound accusatory.

Con looked abashed: "The media have got hold of Houghton's involvement," he answered apologetically. "He's hosting a press conference at ten."

Frank stopped dead in his tracks at that. He had wanted to barrel through the pleasantries and simply confront the FBI agents. He'd been planning to let them know, in no uncertain terms, just why they should be allowed in on the investigation – the manhunt, if that was what they were going to insist on calling it.

Then Con's words sent his every argument flying from his mind: There was going to be a press conference. In a couple of hours, the whole of Bayport would know exactly what had happened to Joe.

And Frank hadn't contacted a single one of their friends. They would learn of Joe's abduction through an impersonal police press conference.

They deserved better.

Frank felt torn, but he had to trust his dad to deal with Agents Mason and Carr. His friends had stepped right up to the plate when the threat of Houghton had first appeared. They had all unequivocally offered their help in ensuring that no Hardy would be left alone. They had all willingly put themselves in danger.

The FBI weren't going anywhere in a hurry and Frank had some phone calls to make.

* * *

The noise started again the moment that Joe laid back down on his bed.

Frustrated, exhausted and – above all – angry, he leapt up from the bunk. There was only one place for him to aim his anger at.

"What the hell do you want from me?" he yelled – looking upwards, into the security camera. He was certain – through recent experience – that it was being monitored, but he had no way of knowing if it was picking up sound as well. "Why are you doing this?" He banged his fists against the bars as he shouted. "Let me go, dammit! Or fight me! Fight me like a man!"

The unseen door slammed open at that exact moment and Joe felt fear threatening to weaken him. He had demanded a confrontation and now he was going to get one.

Both Houghton and his sidekick, Carl, were bigger and stronger than he was. There was also no doubt that they knew how to fight dirty. But Joe refused to back down; that wasn't who he was.

So he clenched his fists and prepared for a fight.

He was doomed to disappointment.

Carl entered first, his gun at the ready. He held it in both hands and had one finger on the trigger. His aim was low, but still threatening. Houghton sauntered in after him.

"Turn around and put your hands against the wall." Houghton's tone was both arrogant and demanding.

Joe raised his hands almost automatically when confronted by the threat of the gun, but he made no immediate move to further comply. His fists were still clenched and adrenaline was running freely through his veins.

"Turn… Around…" The order was ground out again.

And then the gun went off. The noise made Joe involuntarily cry out and left his ears ringing. The air was left smelling heavily of cordite.

"Next time, he won't miss." Houghton promised.

Having no other choice, Joe slowly turned around and allowed himself to be handcuffed again.

TBC


	17. Chapter 17

Author's note: Disclaimer as in Chapter One. Thank you all so much for the reviews. Apologies for the delay in updating – I've got a lot going on right now. And I _know_ I've fallen behind with my reviewing – I'll endeavour to catch up over the weekend. Thanks for reading, Helen.

Blame

Chapter Seventeen

The hardest call Frank had to make was to the Morton farm. While it had been difficult talking to Callie Shaw, Biff Hooper, Tony Prito, Phil Cohen, et al – talking to Chet Morton bordered on impossible.

Chet was his best friend but – more importantly – his sister, Iola, was his brother's girlfriend.

The conversation with Chet went pretty much how he'd expected it to: At first there was outrage and worry that Joe had been taken; next came indignation that it had taken a whole day for Frank to inform them of the fact; third came the inevitable request for details – and the reassuring offer of whatever help he might be able to offer; finally came the quiet assurance that he would break the news to Iola.

Chet's predictable response had somehow reassured Frank. It gave him almost a sense of normality. It reminded him that Joe had been kidnapped before – and his brother had always been returned to him safe and sound.

And it wasn't only Chet. All of his friends had reacted in pretty much the same way. And, though Frank genuinely appreciated each and every offer of assistance, he had to ask them all to stay away and not get involved. Houghton was simply too dangerous and he didn't want to put anyone else at risk.

After hanging up the phone for the final time, Frank heaved a sigh of relief. His duty was done and now he could get actively involved in the search for his brother.

He headed down to his dad's office and was confronted by a closed door. Knocking gently to announce his presence, he opened the door – expecting to be instantly rebuffed by raised voices. Instead, the conversation was low and murmured.

Con was nowhere in sight and Frank figured that he'd had to have gone into work. He couldn't spend all of his time – particularly the City's hours – holding their hands.

The three men left in the office all looked up when Frank walked in. Then Fenton got to his feet.

"Agent Mason, Agent Carr," he introduced. "This is my eldest son, Frank."

When he got no adverse reaction to his apparent youth, Frank correctly surmised that his dad had already told the agents about him. Now he just had to find out what else had been said.

Simply because he was an inherently polite person – it was all in the way he had been brought up; another homage to his mother – he shook the hands of both agents before settling down in a vacant chair. The tilt of his head and the look in his eyes dared anyone to try and tell him he wasn't welcome.

"So," he said, choosing to be Joe-like for once and diving right in. "How do we find my brother?"

* * *

Two hours later, Frank was left feeling a discomforting mixture of relief, appeasement, frustration and anger. The first two were easy to reconcile to: they were almost overwhelming, because he had genuinely feared that the FBI agents would close the door on him and his dad having anything to do with the search.

That hadn't been the case. Mason and Carr had actually welcomed Fenton's expertise – after all, nobody knew Graham Houghton as well as the PI did – and they had even shared what information they had. The frustration came from the fact that they had precious little to share – about Houghton, at least.

Whilst recapturing the escapee was a high priority for them; they also seemed to have a more than healthy interest in apprehending Carl Stafford. In fact, they had an awful lot of information on the man Collig had described as a mere thug.

It turned out that Stafford was of high interest to the FBI – right from the top down. It wasn't anything that the thug had done, but who he had done it for. From what Frank could understand, Stafford had done the dirty work for Organised Crime rings the whole length of the East Coast.

That was where Frank's anger came in. Too much of the conversation had centred on Stafford – and not enough on Joe. Finally, when the New Yorker's name was mentioned just once too often, he snapped.

"Why are you even telling us all of this?" He demanded, angrily. "How does this help us find Joe?"

He glanced towards his father, expecting a reprimand for his outburst – but Fenton's face was grim and he looked as though he was equally eager to learn the answers to those questions.

The next moment he knew that his suspicions were justified as Mason and Carr exchanged a glance.

"What is going on?" Fenton asked, his voice hard and unmistakably dangerous.

It was Agent Mason who answered: "We know Houghton's MO and, if he sticks to it, then your son will be released." He spoke with clear reluctance. "He'll be our best shot at getting both Houghton and Stafford."

Fenton's previously stony features turned to granite. "You know Houghton's MO. You know what he does to his victims." As he spoke, he slowly rose from his chair; leaning on his knuckles over the desk. "You know what he'll do to my son."

"He doesn't kill…" Agent Carr valiantly tried to intervene.

"I have no intention of leaving my son in that madman's hands for one more day. Do you understand me?" Fenton's anger was now at full steam and he made no attempt to rein it in. "You will help me find him, or you will leave my house. Is that clear?"

"I'll tell you what's clear, _Mr_ Hardy," Carr retorted, his own ire rising. "If you, in any way, impede this investigation…"

"I'm not impeding anything," Fenton interrupted, clearly unphased by the threat. He'd been threatened before – and by better men than Thomas Carr. "My files are right there." He jerked his head towards the filing cabinet. "Knock yourself out."

"Dad…" Frank tried to get a word in edgeways. It wasn't helping Joe to be fighting amongst themselves – even if he did agree with everything his father was saying.

But, by this time, Fenton was beyond hearing.

"If you don't want to help me," the PI continued – his words only aimed at Carr. "Then when – _when_ – I find Joe, you won't get near him. Not for a long, long time."

* * *

Joe hated the 'interrogation room' – as he had come to think of it. He hated it more than he hated his cell.

Admittedly, in his cell were the blinding lights and incessant noise; but that noise was formless. The words it contained were random and impersonal.

In this other room, with Houghton in his face, they were very, very personal.

"They locked me up, Joseph." Houghton launched into him the moment he was back in the chair – and the accusations never changed. "I never killed anyone and they locked me up."

He circled behind where Joe sat and then leant forwards, putting his lips right up against Joe's ear: "You killed your mom and what did they do to you?"

Breathing heavily, Joe blinked back tears. He tried to hold on to the slowly fading memory of Frank's words: "It was an accident."

"What did they do to you?" Houghton asked the question; but then Carl provided an answer: "Patted you on the hand and sent you on your way," the thug sneered. "Hardly seems like justice to me."

"There will be justice, Joseph," Houghton snarled. "Real justice. Every killer gets that –no matter how long it takes."

"I'm not…" Joe could barely force the words past the tightness in his throat. Confusion was taking free rein and, because he had no clear memory of the crash, he didn't know whose voice to believe any more.

"Not what? Not a killer?" His captor leapt on his feeble words. "Yes you are, or else your mom would still be alive."

"No…" His answer was little more than a low moan.

"Then tell me why she's dead."

Joe didn't – _couldn't_ – answer that.

A short time later, he was taken back to his cell.

* * *

The doorbell ringing interrupted the tense atmosphere that had suddenly descended over Fenton's office. All heads turned towards the source of the sound – a conveniently rigged extension for when the rest of the house was empty – but nobody immediately moved.

Frank, for a brief and innocent instant, considered merely ignoring it. The half-formed thought that his mom would get it flitted across his mind. Then painfully familiar – and yet all too recent – agony stabbed through him. He'd taken his mother for granted in so many ways; there were going to be these constant reminders that she was gone for a long time to come.

Feeling tears sting at his eyes and not wanting to cry in front of the FBI agents, he rapidly got to his feet. He didn't bother to excuse himself – he didn't quite trust his voice at that moment.

As soon as he was out of the office, he managed to draw in a deep and steadying breath. It somehow helped – as though the air in the office had been cloying and suffocating. He realised that it was the attitude of Mason and Carr that had made it feel that way. It made his escape feel almost welcome.

Then the doorbell rang again – louder now that he was back in the main house – and he hastened to answer it. Security and safety were instilled in him – even without the threat of Houghton – and he glanced through the peephole before opening the door.

He grimaced as he recognised the figure standing on the doorstep. The normally formidable looking woman seemed somehow smaller than the last time he had seen her, just a few short months ago.

As he disabled the alarm system, he glanced back over his shoulder. As he'd known he would, he saw the door of the corridor leading to the office ajar and his father standing there watching him. His stance, even in silhouette, clearly showed that he had his hand on his gun.

Frank offered a half-smile: "It's Aunt Gertrude," he explained.

If anything, Fenton's stance tensed even further; then he turned abruptly and headed back into the office.

Frank felt more than a little irritated; Gertrude was Fenton's sister, after all. Couldn't he have at least stayed long enough to say hello?

And then he opened the door and was captured by his Aunt's embrace. Even as she clung to him, he felt her tears soaking his sweater. Though Gertrude seemed stern at times – and had her own somewhat brash opinion of how both Frank and Joe should be raised – she did love her family; Laura included. And no difference of opinions in the past was ever going to change that.

Gertrude Hardy was as devastated as the rest of them – and she didn't yet know of Joe's abduction.

TBC


	18. Chapter 18

Author's note: Disclaimer as in Chapter One. Continued thanks for the reviews.

Blame

Chapter Eighteen

When Frank left to answer the door, Fenton felt the pressing need to follow him. Too much had happened to his family too quickly. Still devastated by the loss of his wife and reeling from Joe's kidnapping, the thought of anything happening to Frank as well had the potential to destroy him.

So he stood in the hallway – his hand on his gun; which he was fully prepared to use should it prove necessary – and watched approvingly, as Frank checked the peephole before even disabling the alarm.

When Frank informed him that it was Gertrude, he knew that he should go and greet his sister. But there was something else he had to deal with first.

Re-entering his office, Fenton closed the door behind him and then stood beside it instead of retaking his seat opposite Mason and Carr.

"Gentleman, I'm afraid we need to wrap this up," he said, grimly. "My sister is here and I really should be with her."

"Mr Hardy, we're not done here." Unsurprisingly it was Carr who snapped out the retort. "You can't threaten to blackmail a Federal Agent."

"I didn't 'threaten' anything, Agent," Fenton shot back. "I merely told you…"

"I know what you said." Carr got to his feet and stalked over to the Investigator. "And trust me, when Joe is either found or released, he will face questioning…"

"I've no doubt about that." Fenton smiled humourlessly at him. "But first he'll see a doctor and then maybe a psychologist. And when – in their professional opinion – he's ready, then you'll probably be allowed to talk to him." Another smile. "Under expert supervision, of course."

"And I suppose you think you can get your friends to run interference for you? Well let me tell you…"

"Back off, Thomas." Mason was the unlikely peacemaker. When Carr's partner also got to his feet, Fenton had expected to be facing a double-barrelled assault. But Mason hadn't got riled like Carr had – and so was a little more accommodating. "Mr Hardy, we'll talk again soon – possibly when emotions aren't quite so… charged."

Though Fenton appreciated the intervention, he couldn't envisage a time when he would be able to sit back and talk about this without his emotions taking control. He couldn't even think about it rationally. But he nodded his acquiescence at Mason's suggestion.

Carr still wasn't ready to be appeased and so no handshakes were exchanged as Fenton escorted the Agents out through the front door.

Then he took a deep and steadying breath and went to meet his sister. Though he had spent years working for the NYPD and was now a successful Private Investigator, he felt a twinge of apprehension flutter through his stomach.

His sister had flown out simply to offer comfort in his time of grieving. She had been told very little of the accident and Graham Houghton's name had never been mentioned to her. Now he had to tell her not only that Joe was missing – but also that the man who had taken him was most probably responsible for Laura's death.

Fenton winced inwardly as he imagined what her reaction would be. Gertrude was a woman of strong opinions – and she wasn't shy about letting those opinions be known. And to say that her tongue was sharp was an understatement of massive proportions.

It had to be him who told her; it was totally unfair to expect Frank to undertake the task.

But Fenton wasn't looking forward to the conversation one little bit.

* * *

"Aunty…" Frank didn't really know what to say.

He disentangled himself from his Aunt's embrace; his mind already racing ahead and trying to formulate an answer should she ask the inevitable question as to Joe's whereabouts.

But Gertrude seemed to be in shock and was uncharacteristically quiet. Frank surmised that she still hadn't had the time to fully come to terms with the car accident.

When Fenton had called his sister and broken the news about Laura, Gertrude had instantly said she would drop everything and catch the next available flight to Bayport. They hadn't expected anything less.

But then, when Joe went missing, they hadn't wanted to have to make another 'bad news' phone call to her – not when she was already on her way. Now Frank wished with all of his heart that he didn't have to be the one to deliver that news.

His Aunt always came across as being strong – she was a Hardy, after all – but now she was looking decidedly frail. Putting his arm around her shoulders, he guided her into the lounge.

"Would you like some tea?" he stalled.

But Gertrude kept a grip on his hand as she sank down onto the couch. Her eyes were red-rimmed and she seemed at something of a loss. It was unnerving to see her behaving in such a way.

"Where's Fenton?" she asked.

Frank sighed. By telling her that her brother was consulting with FBI agents, he would be forced to also reveal what had happened to Joe. He didn't care if it might be considered cowardly, but he didn't want to have to do that.

"I'm right here, Gert."

Frank got to his feet at the sound of his father's voice and Gertrude did the same. A look was exchanged between the brother and sister and Frank felt suddenly surplus to requirements.

The two of them were so unalike, it was sometimes easy to forget that they were siblings. To the outsider, they would never be considered as being particularly close. To those who knew them, it was a different matter entirely. Gertrude had never married and was a stereotypical spinster – but she was also fiercely loyal and harboured unconditional love towards Fenton and his family. It didn't matter that she wasn't the most demonstrative of people; didn't matter that her love might sometimes manifest itself as interference. All that mattered was that she _did_ love them.

Now, even as she – like the rest of them – struggled to come to terms with Laura's death, Fenton had to tell her that her youngest nephew was missing. It was going to be a very private thing.

As Frank headed towards the door, his dad caught hold of his arm. "I sent Mason and Carr away," he murmured, _sotto voce_, "But they will be back." He glanced at his sister and found a smile for her. "In the meantime, I think tea would be a good idea."

* * *

Joe had no way of knowing that his Aunt Gertrude had arrived at the family home; he had no idea of anything that was happening within his family. He didn't know that both Con Riley and even Ezra Collig were putting in so many hours of their own time, in an effort to find him. He certainly didn't know that the FBI had now got involved.

All he knew was that Houghton had found a new spin on his torture.

After being returned to his cell, he had found himself immersed in silence and darkness. But he didn't dare relax. He didn't even dare lie down; knowing that, the moment he did, the lights or the noise – or both – would return to assail him again.

Seconds passed – and then minutes. Joe looked upwards into the absolute darkness and dared to hope. He still didn't dare to lie down, but instead slumped back against the wall and let his eyes drift shut. The darkness didn't change but, in spite of the torment raging through him, he tried to believe that exhaustion would win out. Sleep would finally take him and maybe it would silence the voices.

Maybe it would also invoke nightmares, but he was too damned tired to care about that. All he cared about was rest.

Then lights shone and noise blared and he was jerked cruelly back into wakefulness.

His resistance was almost completely gone. Joe would never think of himself as being broken; wouldn't even consider that he was weak – but he _was_ reaching the end of his endurance. Even he had to admit that.

Clamping his hands as firmly as he could over his ears, Joe lay down onto his stomach and buried his face into the pillow. It didn't matter that he could barely even breathe, or that the stale smell from the bed left him wanting to gag. He craved peace and darkness.

As if his desperate prayer was heard and then answered, Joe suddenly got both. Turning his face away from the pillow, he gasped in clean air even as his body convulsed into a sob.

He rubbed one hand over his eyes and tried to force himself to relax; to take this moment of respite and give in to his body's need to sleep. He lay on his side – his body comfortable in a parody of the first-aid 'recovery position' and gradually his breathing evened out.

And then the noise and the light came back with a suddenness that had him jumping clear off the bed. Sitting back down, he hugged his arms around his midriff and tried not to give in to the urge to beg.

Then it stopped again and, after a few seconds of fearful anticipation had passed, Joe lay back down again.

And then it started up again. He didn't know why he had even dared to hope.

With no way to track the passage of time – and not having the wherewithal to try and count seconds and minutes – Joe had no way of knowing how long this went on for. It was indeterminable and it felt, to Joe's tortured mind, that the gaps were getting longer and longer.

Each period of silence long enough to allow him to hope that he might sleep; each blast of noise brief enough to kill that hope.

Sudden darkness and silence; sudden brightness and noise.

Joe thought that he was going insane.

TBC


	19. Chapter 19

Author's note: Disclaimer as in Chapter One. Continued thanks for the reviews.

Blame

Chapter Nineteen

Frank stood in the kitchen and waited for the kettle to boil. He could still hear the low murmur of voices from the lounge – and when he heard his Aunt's gasped cry of: _"Mercy!"_ he knew that his father had told her about Joe.

He still didn't want to walk back in on them and he flicked on the radio in order to drown out their voices and give them some privacy.

In spite of her reaction when she had first arrived, Frank knew that Gertrude would want to be strong for him; for them. She would see it as her place to be their rock; the one who wasn't quite as close – whether that was actually true or not; the one who could look out for them and take care of them. The one who would ensure that their obsession with finding Joe wouldn't be too detrimental to their own health.

So Frank wanted to give her the time to compose herself – and then she would deal with her grief and shock in her own way; just as they were all doing.

She wouldn't take over the role of their mother – she wouldn't even try – but she would do a very similar job. She would take care of the simple things like ensuring that they ate and slept.

Past experience had proved that they needed someone to do such things. Frank had the bad habit of totally ignoring his own wellbeing when his baby brother was in trouble.

With a wry smile, Frank poured boiling water into the teapot – his Aunt always insisted on a proper pot of tea – and wondered if he had yet allowed them enough time alone. Stalling, he took a plate out of the cupboard and laid some cookies out on it. He hadn't eaten yet that day and knew the same was true of his dad.

Then, with the tea tray fully laden and with no further excuse to delay, he turned the radio off, intending to head back into the lounge.

At that moment, there was a sudden ringing of the doorbell – and it coincided almost exactly with a knock at the back door.

"I'll get it!" he called out, being deliberately vague as to which of the two he was going to answer. He didn't want his dad to be pulled away from his difficult conversation with Aunt Gertrude.

Because he was in the kitchen, he decided to take the logical action and answer the back door first. A few moments later, he was immensely glad that he did. A voice called out, even before he had the chance to draw back the curtain and see who their latest visitor was:

"Fenton? Frank? Are you in there? It's Sam."

Frank smiled a genuine smile as he opened the door to Sam Radley – his dad's old friend and long-time assistant.

"Sam, it's good to see you," Frank said, shaking the man's hand – and he meant it. Sam was an excellent detective in his own right – and he was also a good man. It was reassuring to know that he was now on board with them.

"I got here as soon as I…" Sam's words were interrupted by the doorbell ringing again – and this time at was accompanied by an impatient knocking. As Frank glanced irritatedly back over his shoulder, Sam shook his head: "Don't answer it," he advised. "There's a news van parked right outside."

Frank's lips thinned in disgust and, belatedly, he remembered Con's words about Chief Collig hosting a press conference. That had been scheduled for ten am and it was now the early afternoon. Frank supposed it was a minor miracle that it had taken them this long to come seeking a reaction.

"Sam, come on through." He had to go and warn his dad about the unwelcome visitors, before Fenton decided to answer the door for himself – or, worse still, Aunt Gertrude took it upon herself to do it.

None of them were in the right frame of mind to deal with any reporters. Some members of the media were decent people – the Hardys had worked closely with them on numerous previous occasions. But there were also the more sensationalist types who could be considered insensitive at best; or unscrupulous at worst.

* * *

When Houghton and Carl came for Joe the next time, he wasn't in any condition to offer even the slightest resistance.

For the past several seconds, or minutes, or hours, or even days – he couldn't even attempt to hazard a guess as to how much time had passed – he had lain on his side with his arms wrapped firmly around his head and with his eyes tightly closed. Neither action made any difference to the intensity of the light and noise – but he had now been pushed beyond the limits of his endurance.

He would have given anything to make it stop – just, please stop. Unbeknownst to Joe, he had taken to muttering that desperate plea out loud. And that was when Houghton and Carl returned.

There were no theatrics this time – no threats and certainly no gunfire. In fact, Joe didn't even hear them enter his cell. The first he knew of their presence was when his arms were grabbed and, a moment later, he was once again restrained by the handcuffs.

"No more…" Joe moaned – not even aware that he was speaking out loud. To him, the words only existed in his head; along with the noise that had been, in reality, a long time silenced – but was by now reverberating never-endingly around his skull.

"Ready to fess up, killer?" Houghton smirked.

Joe barely even heard him and was totally oblivious to the fact that he was staggering – almost falling – in the grip of the two men.

His eyes burned, his head throbbed and the noise – those damning, accusatory words – wouldn't leave him alone.

Almost falling into the chair the moment he was close to it, Joe closed his eyes. The lights in the interrogation room were nowhere near as dazzling or as painful as those in his cell.

He had less than a second of blessed relief. Then pain erupted in his cheek and his head was rocked violently to one side. He cracked his eyes open – and then recoiled away from the sight of Houghton standing almost nose to nose with him.

"You think I brought you here to let you sleep? Guess again." Houghton sneered. He tapped his palm against Joe's already aching cheek – though with considerably less force this time. "Drink," he commanded.

A cup was put to Joe's mouth and he automatically opened his lips. Dehydration was a new discomfort that he had only just identified.

Joe drank the water, no longer even giving thought to the danger of it probably being drugged.

* * *

Almost as an afterthought, Frank picked up the tea tray and then preceded Sam out of the kitchen.

"Dad, Sam's here." He called out the warning to give both his father and his Aunt a moment to compose themselves.

Then he almost collided with the two siblings as they exited the lounge – but they were moving with a strange kind of haste.

"Dad?" Frank couldn't fathom what was happening. His father looked unbearably tense and he had what looked like a firm grip on Gertrude's arm.

"We'll take that in my office," Fenton said; nodding towards the tea tray and then moving purposefully in said direction – leaving his sister no choice but to go along with him.

"Fenton…" Sam made his own attempt to intervene; just as the doorbell rang again.

"But… The door." Gertrude looked towards the closed front door and then Fenton, almost imperceptibly, tightened his hold on her arm.

"It's just reporters." The PI shook his head. Joe's picture would be all over the news by now. There was very little more that the media could do to help them. The ones outside his house were just looking for some sort of an 'exclusive'. "My office has no windows; they'll think that no-one's home. They'll go away eventually."

And then the phone rang.

* * *

"Now talk." Houghton took the cup from Joe's lips and placed it back onto the table.

"What..?" Joe wasn't sure exactly what was expected of him. His head was fuzzy – through lack of sleep; through drugs; through psychological torture; or through a combination of all three. He didn't know which.

A hand slammed down onto the table, causing Joe to flinch – and then Carl was in his face as well: "Talk!" he yelled.

"I don't…" Joe's head lolled, suddenly feeling too heavy for his neck to hold up. He was rewarded with another stinging slap. His senses honed back towards sharpness – and then almost instantly drifted away again. "What do you want me to say?"

"Confess." Houghton barked out the command.

Joe let his eyes close again – knowing what it would bring, but needing the pain to help him hold onto some sort of focus. The expected blow rocked his head to the other side this time – and he tasted blood in his mouth.

A small part of him relished it.

"It was an accident!" He cried out – trying to hold on to the conviction that Frank had somehow managed to instil in him. "I didn't…"

"What? Kill her?' Houghton roared back, grabbing Joe by the collar of his jumpsuit and pulling him half out of the chair. "You did, Joseph. You couldn't control the car. You crashed it and you killed your mom." He thrust Joe back into the chair. "Drink!" he ordered, again.

This time, Joe tried to twist his head away as the cup was put to his lips. But he was weak and hurt and had very little left in the way of resistance. It didn't expend much of Carl's energy to keep his head still and even force his mouth open.

Even as Joe coughed and spluttered, as the tainted water was poured down his throat, Houghton never relented for a second.

"_I'm_ not a killer, Joseph. Even your own father would tell you that." Houghton goaded at him. "Should we call him? _Should we?_" He pulled a cellphone from his pocket. "Should we call daddy?"

"No!" Joe couldn't help his reaction. Houghton – and, most likely, his drugs – had him confused and thinking in circles. And that word: _Joseph_. Even when his captor said it, he heard his dad's cold tone. _Joseph_.

"No?" Houghton smiled, cruelly. "And why wouldn't you want to talk to him? Are you afraid, Joseph? Are you scared he'll tell you that I've never taken a life? Are you more afraid of a pause – of a slight hesitation – which might suggest that, while I've never killed, he knows that _you_ have?"

Joe hitched in a breath, trying to fight back a sob. He failed. Grief blindsided him with a sudden and ferocious intensity and there was only one thought – one truth – he could hold onto: his mom was dead. A second thought crept up on the heels of that one: _she was in the car with you and now she's dead_.

He dropped his head onto his chest and began to cry. He didn't look up and so didn't see the triumphant look in Houghton's eyes – and nor did he see the satisfied glance that he exchanged with Carl.

They had to practically drag him back to his cell.

TBC


	20. Chapter 20

BLAME 


	21. Chapter 21

**PLEASE NOTE AND HEED ALL PREVIOUS WARNINGS!**

Disclaimer as in Chapter One

Author's note: I know I replied personally to many of you, following the reaction to my decision to quit this story. However, I also need to say thank you to everybody who helped me to change my mind about that decision. The response was totally overwhelming and left me utterly stunned. Please know that I truly appreciated every review, email and PM. It is because of all of you, your amazing support – and some very wise words that this story is, once again, back in progress.

Sincerely, thank you.

Helen

BLAME

Frank made a beeline for the telephone but, surprisingly, it was Aunt Gertrude who beat him to it. Snatching her arm free from her brother's grip, she strode over to the offending object and lifted the receiver.

All three of the men in the hallway held their breaths – expecting some kind of a tirade, but Gertrude never even said a word. Her mouth tightened and her eyes hardened but then she simply hung up.

Almost immediately, it began to ring again.

Frank took a decisive step forwards, but Aunt Gertrude's hand was still hovering over the receiver.

"Let me do this." She spoke mostly to Fenton, but her eyes supplicated Frank and Sam as well. "You need to go and…" She trailed off.

"Gert…" Fenton tried to intervene. He knew how relentless the media could be – and how cruel too, at times.

"Please. You boys need to go and do what you need to do." Tears were standing out in Gertrude's eyes, but there was no waver to her voice. "Find Joe. Find the man who… who killed Laura…" Even as she spoke, she scowled down at the still ringing telephone. Then she lifted the receiver, listened for a few seconds and then hung up again.

"Aunty…" It was Frank's turn to try – but Gertrude never gave him the chance to put his objections into words.

"Please, Fen." Her tough demeanour was gone in that simple endearment – one Frank could never remember hearing before; but also one that made him inwardly smile. "Let me help. I'm not stupid…"

"I know you're not." But 'Fen' was shaking his head even as he spoke.

"I can transfer a call to you if it's important," Gertrude pressed relentlessly onwards. "And if it's those bloodthirsty newshounds…" Her shoulders stiffened and her entire demeanour shifted – and she was back to being the perennial spinster, Gertrude Hardy, again. "I know how to hang up a telephone."

"Yeah, Gert, you do." Fenton smiled at his sister. He knew that she could be formidable, but also that she reserved her tongue-lashings for the right time and place. He could trust her implicitly with the telephone.

And, at the end of the day, she would feel like she was doing something to help Joe and Fenton couldn't deny her that.

With a gesture of his head, Fenton invited both Frank and Sam to follow him into the office. They had barely gone two steps when Gertrude's voice halted them:

"You might want to leave me a cup of that tea."

Frank left her the entire pot.

* * *

Once they were back in the office, Sam took a moment to tightly grasp Fenton's hand and offer his condolences for the loss of his wife.

Fenton took the sentiment in the spirit it was offered, but there was no longer time for any further tears. They would now be reserved for after Joe's recovery. And, not until then, would they even consider making any funeral arrangements for Laura. Though it had never yet been spoken of, it had been somehow – albeit silently – decided that Joe would be there to say his final goodbye to his mom.

That thought put Fenton's mind firmly back on track. Though grief and guilt still weighed heavily on him, he forced himself to focus. They had to find Joe – and before too much damage was done – and any further recriminations, or even emotions, would have to be put on hold.

There were still files and papers spread out across the desk and prominent amongst them, was Houghton's mug shot. Sam picked it up, his mouth twisted in disgust, and stared at it.

"I wish I could have been here, my friend," he murmured.

"Don't, Sam." Fenton took the picture from him and, turning it face down, put it back onto the desk. "It wouldn't have changed what happened." He spoke with absolute conviction. None of the events of the last two days would have played out differently if Sam had remained in Bayport. "Did you find anything?"

Frank leant forward, interestedly. Sam had been in Newark, following up on Houghton's escape. Though the police and the FBI were officially investigating, he'd done some digging of his own. Any lead, however small, might be a help to them.

"The warden wasn't exactly accommodating." Sam answered with a grimace. "I got the feeling that the feds had been all over him and he didn't take kindly to some 'small-town dick' – his words, not mine – showing up on his doorstep."

Fenton and Frank both smiled humourlessly at that. Neither of them envied Sam the task he had voluntarily, and willingly, undertaken.

"Then I caught up with an off-duty guard and… convinced him to talk to me." When Fenton raised a sardonic eyebrow at that, Sam's look turned sheepish. "Okay, so I got him drunk," he admitted. "He said that Houghton had been a model prisoner from the day of his incarceration. Nobody paid even the slightest bit of attention to him." He shook his head. "He did that for over ten years. Their guard couldn't have been any further down."

"And that was how he was able to jump a laundryman and just drive straight out through the prison gates," Fenton concluded. He'd already got the basic details of the escape from Collig.

"Yeah but, because he was such a 'nice guy', this guard used to talk to him," Sam continued. "They even played chess once in a while."

"Houghton is a master of the human psyche," Fenton growled out. "He'd know that winning the guard's trust would give him an edge…"

"I know, Fenton – but…" Sam glanced downwards – causing Fenton and Frank to exchange a concerned glance. He looked almost ashamed.

"Sam?" Fenton prompted.

"Fenton, I had to get him drunk." Sam's sheepish look returned with full force. "I couldn't really do that without having a drink or two myself."

"Sam!" This time, Fenton's reaction was indignant – even outraged.

"Look, the more the liquor flowed, the more talkative he got." Sam still couldn't quite meet their eyes. "And he didn't want to drink alone."

"Can you even remember what he said to you?" Frank's question was scathing – but he couldn't help it. A potential lead might be lost in a drunken haze.

"Frank!" His dad admonished, sharply. As Frank murmured an apology, Fenton turned his attention back to his assistant: "Well? Do you?"

"I'm not an amateur." Sam had his own admonishment – and both Hardys recognised the truth in it. Sam Radley was nothing if not both professional and dependable. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a micro-tape. "I recorded the entire conversation." He pushed it across the desk towards Fenton. "But I haven't had the time to listen to it yet."

* * *

When they thrust Joe back into the cell, neither Houghton nor Carl took the time to remove his handcuffs. The lights were on, but the noise was silenced – and, for a long time, Joe remained where he was: on his knees just inside the cell door.

He closed his eyes.

And the noise blasted out again.

Sudden rage overtook Joe and he surged to his feet. It didn't matter that his hands were still cuffed behind his back.

He kicked at the bars, not caring that it bruised his bare feet; he shoulder-charged the cell door again and again, ignoring the pain that shot through him on each impact.

But it did nothing to help precipitate his escape- didn't even make a dent in his prison. All it did was increase his pain and force him to realise that there was nothing he could do to help himself.

His rage expending as quickly as it had arisen, Joe collapsed back onto his knees.

Then, to add to his inherent misery, the noise was suddenly cranked up another notch – but now the words weren't random. They were insistent and incessant:

_Killer, murderer. Killer, murderer._

_Killer, murderer. Killer, murderer._

_Killer, murderer. Killer, murderer._

And this time they didn't stop.

* * *

Fenton, Frank and Sam all leant towards the Dictaphone that lay in the centre of the desk. Then Sam's voice floated tinnily out of it: _"Hey, you're Dennis Weaver, aren't you?"_

Fenton raised an eyebrow at that, but Sam just shrugged – and Frank was left feeling totally lost by the silent exchange.

"He's an actor," his dad explained – just to let him know that he wasn't being left out of any kind of loop. "It's not important."

"It took me a while to win him over," Sam broke in, reaching for the device and pressing 'fast-forward'. "Let's skip to the good stuff."

Frank's own hand lashed out and hit the 'stop' button. He didn't like to second-guess Sam, but his gut was telling him that this tape was important. He didn't want to miss anything.

"Are you sure..?" he began to ask – his hesitation apparent in his voice.

"Frank, if there's anything that will help us find Joe, then it's at the end of the tape." Sam took no offence. "If there's nothing there, then we'll go over it word by word. But right now I'm trying to save some time."

"The first five minutes, at least, will be spent by Sam convincing Dennis that he's not a reporter," Fenton intervened – a smile taking the sting out of his words. He looked at Sam: "Am I right?"

"More like ten minutes," Sam responded, sourly. "That's why I had to join him in hitting the hard stuff. A reporter would need to keep a clear head." Another shrug. "He never knew he was being recorded." He hit 'fast-forward' again and, this time, nobody made a move to stop him.

The next time Sam hit 'play' a different voice floated out to them: _"…more than ten years to make an escape. But he said he had nothing to get out for. That's when we kinda got talking. Never met a con before who didn't want to get out. At least that was what he said until some old chick died. Then he kinda changed…"_

"_He was waiting for an old chick to die?"_

In spite of the seriousness of the situation, Fenton and Frank both turned their eyes towards Sam; their morbid amusement apparent. Even with the distortion of the tape, Sam's words were definitely slurred.

"_Yeah, he went real quiet after that," the guard continued. "I figured he was just grieving. But then a week later, the SOB makes his getaway."_

TBC


	22. Chapter 22

Author's note: Many thanks for the continued support and wonderful reviews.

BLAME

Joe's eyes were closed; he simply couldn't keep them open any more. Still on his knees, he'd collapsed forwards – folding in on himself. He tried to control his ragged breathing and seek some calm. It didn't work. It couldn't silence the voices.

He couldn't take any more; he just couldn't.

Everything hurt and he couldn't even cry any more. His sobs were dry, but still convulsed his already tortured body. He just wanted it all to stop.

Without actually coherently forming the idea, Joe lifted his head up – and then let it bang down onto the unforgiving concrete floor. The fresh pain that blossomed barely even registered and he repeated the action.

The light behind his closed eyelids turned red – and then that red descended into black.

Joe wasn't aware of the noise suddenly being silenced; even as he succeeded in forcing unconsciousness onto himself.

It didn't matter. The voices chased him into the darkness – and with it came the nightmares:

_He smiled as he eased down on the gas, knowing that he was going to sail through the green light._

_There was a sudden flash of movement to his right and he panicked. The Buick looked huge and solid – almost like a tank bearing down on them. He could see Houghton's face grinning manically at him through the windshield. _

"_Stop!" his mom screamed._

_Then all of a sudden he was outside the car and watching the scene unfold as a spectator. _

_The car accelerated instead of braking and the minor impact sent it into a violent spin. He could see his mom – no longer in the passenger seat, but being tossed around the interior of the car like a rag doll. _

_And Joe was back in the car again. _

"_Hit the brake!" he screamed to himself. But his foot seemed glued to the gas pedal._

_A telegraph pole loomed in front of him, but he still couldn't ease up on the gas. Instead he swung the steering wheel wildly to the left, ensuring that the passenger side took the brunt of the impact when it came._

_There was a deafening bang and then the crunch and screech of tortured metal. He thought he also heard the sickening snap of breaking bones._

_Smoke, or radiator steam, obscured his vision. Then, when it cleared, he was left looking down into his mother's lifeless face. _

_Suddenly her eyes opened – though there was no life in them: "It's okay, sweetie," she smiled – but it was a corpse's smile. "It was an accident."_

Joe jerked awake. His heart was pounding against his ribs and his breath came in short, sharp gasps. Even though he was awake, his mother's rictus grin still stood out starkly in his mind's eye.

* * *

Fenton, Frank and Sam listened through to the end of the tape. Dennis Weaver – as the drinks flowed freely – had been more than happy to divulge everything he knew. Unfortunately, he didn't know a great deal.

The 'old chick' he made mention of was only ever identified by the name of 'Sherrie'. Weaver had been the one to vet the mail and open the letter on the day the news of her death reached Houghton. There was no mention of her surname or her relationship to him in that letter. And Weaver couldn't remember exactly who sent it.

All he knew was that it looked legal and that it wasn't from Houghton's own Brief. There had been nothing in there to censor and so Weaver had passed it on in its entirety.

When pressed, Weaver admitted that no-one else knew of the letter; he'd never had course to mention it in an official capacity – such letters were hardly unusual. And, because Weaver hadn't been on duty on the day of the escape, the police had not even bothered interviewing him.

After that letter, Houghton – according to the guard – had changed. And, just a few days later, had made his escape.

Frank tried to bite down on his frustration as the conversation ended and the tape wound to a halt. He had been relying on the tape to give them a lead but, even though they had learnt something that the police weren't privy to – they were still sitting there with virtually nothing to go on.

Sam, too, looked disappointed almost to the point of devastation. Weaver's words were all that he had – and they had turned out to be of little worth. His shoulders slumped, he looked at Fenton.

"I'll go back to Newark," he offered. "I can try the Warden again – see if they kept a copy…"

"That won't be necessary." Of the three of them, Fenton was the only one who could find something positive from Sam's tape. As two equally disbelieving looks were aimed at him, he smiled grimly before elaborating: "A woman called Sherrie and a legal firm involved? I've seen the FBI work with a lot less."

"But, dad…" Frank had to protest. Their meeting with Mason and Carr hadn't exactly been the most amicable.

"I'm not above eating a little crow as far as those agents are concerned." Fenton assured him, knowing instantly the reason for his son's reluctance. "And they can help us."

"But can't we do it?" Frank didn't want to have to rely on Mason or Carr – most especially Carr. Their antipathy towards Joe's plight, as they sought to get their man, had left him feeling hollow and somewhat sick.

Joe _was_ an ancillary casualty to them. To them, he was just a means to an end – because Joe would undoubtedly be released and then he could give them some answers.

But they never saw beyond that black and white fact. They never stopped to consider the aftermath. They never saw the pieces that would have to be put back together again. And they never considered that their 'star witness' would be a considerable suicide risk. All they would want was their answers.

So Frank, with all of his heart, didn't want to have to rely on them.

"We don't have the resources." Fenton was as equally reluctant as Frank to rely on the FBI, but was objective enough to realise that they had no choice. His own emotions were still running high – but not high enough to cloud his objectivity.

"Houghton was originally from New York, but then he moved to Washington." Sam picked up a file off the desk and pretended to read from it. The information he imparted was only in his head, but he opted for the visual medium to help enhance the verbal. "He later worked in Miami and has distant family as far a field as San Diego and Detroit. Do you know how many law firms there might be – even in one of those cities?"

"Chances are we'll need a warrant even to get a look at the letter." Fenton provided the final aspect of the argument. "Outside of Bayport, we'd have a hard time getting one." He looked at Frank with genuine sympathy. "I'm sorry son, but we need them."

Fenton was immeasurably glad that it had been Special Agent Adrian Mason who'd handed him his business card when introductions were first made. Mason had seemed the more rational of the two – and the PI simply didn't have the stomach to deal with Thomas Carr so recently after their last encounter.

The business card – containing only a name and a cellphone number – was still sitting on his desk and he picked it up; turning it over in his fingers. After a moment of silent contemplation, he pulled his own phone out.

As he did so, Frank stood up.

"I think I'll just go and see how Aunt Gertrude is doing," he murmured. As excuses went, it bordered on feeble; but he didn't want to witness his dad going to the FBI for help – not after the attitude they had exhibited towards Joe's plight earlier that day.

Unsurprisingly, as he made his way from the office, he was aware of Sam following. He stopped and waited to hear what his dad's long-time associate had to say.

"Frank, I know I wasn't here and don't know exactly what those agents said," Sam began, looking at him earnestly. "But this is the best chance…"

"No, Sam." Frank wasn't normally one to interrupt, but he simply couldn't help himself. "They don't care about Joe. They're content to wait for him to be released and then they just want to use him!"

"I don't believe that for one minute." Sam answered with absolute conviction. "Joe is a minor and he's been kidnapped. Trust me, they want to find him."

"But Agent Carr…"

"Sometimes personalities clash – even when we're all supposed to be on the same side." A placating hand on Frank's arm prevented a further interruption. "Your dad and I have butted heads with people from every law enforcement agency imaginable – and I'm guessing that you and Joe have too."

Frank managed a small half-smile of acknowledgment at that. Joe, especially, was an expert at 'butting heads' with those they were supposed to be working alongside. And he'd had a few choice moments of his own.

But Carr had been something else. Frank opened his mouth, intending to make that observation but Sam didn't give him the chance.

"We disagree about methods; about priorities; about the best course of action. We can disagree about pretty much everything – but there's one thing that you need to remember." He tightened his grip on Frank's arm; emphasising the importance of his words: "We are all here for one reason and one reason only. And that's finding Joe."

As much as he wanted to believe Sam, Frank wasn't totally convinced. Carl Stafford had seemed much more of a priority to the Feds – even Houghton taking second place to him.

"Look Frank," Sam – seeing his indecision – still had one last throw of the dice. "At the end of the day, a seventeen year old kid is missing and the FBI takes things like that very seriously indeed – particularly if that kid is headline news already." He smiled, trying to convey his absolute belief in his own words. "It doesn't matter if the agents are complete jackasses; I can guarantee you that they'll use every resource they have to bring him home."

"Only one jackass…" Frank retorted, feeling a faint glimmer of hope begin to stir somewhere deep within him as he recognised the wisdom and truth of Sam's words. Maybe the Feds _were_ their best hope – and his dad had been right about one thing: the task of tracking down 'Sherrie' would be impossible without them.

And that was the only lead they currently had. It was time to put personalities to one side and focus on the common goal.

"Thank you," he said to Sam, with genuine gratitude. And the two of them turned and headed back into the office. Unbeknownst to one another, they were both thinking exactly the same thought: _Hang in there, Joe. We're coming._

They re-entered the office, just as Fenton was closing his cellphone. The call ended, he offered a smile to his son and his closest friend: "Now all we can do is wait."

TBC


	23. Chapter 23

Thanks, as ever, for the reviews. Disclaimer as in chapter one.

BLAME

It didn't matter how tightly he squeezed his eyes shut. The final image from his nightmare refused to leave him alone. And his mother's ghostly voice reverberated around the silence of his cell – or maybe it was only inside his own head.

_Silence._

Joe blinked his eyes open. There was light, but it didn't seem anything like as dazzling as it had been before. And the silence… The silence should have been sheer bliss, but it only left him with the echo of his nightmare.

Then he heard a sound that sent the dream images fleeing from his mind and, instead, filled him with a new kind of fear. It was a soft, malicious chuckle.

Joe tried to sit up – feeling too small and vulnerable lying on the floor of his cell. But, with his hands still bound, he had lain awkwardly and his arms were almost completely numb. He scrabbled with his bare feet and then gasped in pain – being suddenly reminded of his earlier futile rage; of kicking recklessly at steel bars.

He collapsed onto one side and more pain flared as feeling began to return to his trapped arms. More laughter sounded from above him and, reluctantly, he turned his gaze upwards.

"Knocking yourself unconscious – how very innovative." Houghton's tone was mocking. Then his eyes narrowed and any hint of mirth disappeared from his face. "Try that again and you'll be tied to the bed." His glower intensified. "Don't think I'm bluffing."

Joe felt sick – and not only because of the latest threat being levelled at him. He had thought his head ached before, but now it pounded with an intensity that reverberated throughout his entire body and left his stomach churning with nausea. Maybe his desperate ploy to just get some rest hadn't been such a bright idea after all.

He tried to twist around, to see how far away he was from the toilet – but the movement only intensified the roiling in his gut. Saliva flooded into his mouth and a sudden cramp forced his knees to jerk up towards his chest.

"Carl!" He heard his captor call out in irritation – and then added, with something akin to spite: "I should just let you puke all over yourself. Stupid kid."

Joe turned his face into the floor and closed his eyes. He didn't hear his cell door being opened, but suddenly he was hauled half upright and dragged towards the john. His stomach rebelled afresh against the motion – but he'd had nothing more substantial than bread and water since his captivity, so there was precious little for him to throw up.

As he descended into dry heaves, the rough hold on him was abruptly released and he slumped back down onto the floor. When his hands were released, he gratefully wrapped them around his aching stomach.

* * *

Frank, with a guilty start, realised that he hadn't actually gone to check on his Aunt Gertrude when he previously fled from the office. Gertrude, who was gamely answering the phone and fending off any unwanted media attention.

Her afternoon must have been immeasurably unpleasant and yet the three detectives had abandoned her to her task.

When Frank voiced his concern aloud, the three of them all got to their feet. There was no point in them hiding in the office any more. All of their eggs were in one basket and that basket was currently in the hands of the FBI.

As they emerged into the hallway, they were all surprised to see the telephone sitting abandoned with the receiver settled serenely in its cradle. There was no sign of Gertrude. Even as that fact registered in their minds, an enticing smell had them gravitating towards the kitchen.

The big pine table was laid for four and Gertrude was busy over by the stove. She didn't look up as the men entered, but continued with what she was doing.

"It stopped ringing about half an hour ago," she said, without offering them any prior acknowledgement. "I think those vultures finally realised they won't be getting any exclusives from here."

"Thanks, Gert." Impulsively Fenton crossed to where she stood, put an arm around her and then kissed her cheek. It wasn't often that he was so openly affectionate towards his older sister – but he needed her to know exactly what her help had meant to him.

Both Frank and Sam had to smother their grins as Gertrude shooed him away – but there was a definite pleased blush to her cheeks and sparkle in her eyes.

"Sit down," she said – all business once again. "I'm sure you haven't even thought about eating. And no arguments. You have to keep your strength up, Lord knows."

There were no objections and Frank smiled appreciatively as meatloaf was heaped onto his plate. He hadn't even realised how hungry he was.

His Aunt Gertrude was the last to take her place. As she sat down, she glanced back towards the counter. Curious, Frank followed her gaze. Then a lump the size of a fist formed in his throat.

There, on the marble surface was a clean plate, knife and fork. An empty glass sat next to them. It was the final place setting. Joe's place setting. She couldn't quite bring herself to lay it at the table – that would have been too cruel a reminder to all of them. But nor could she leave it all in the cupboards. That would have felt like abandonment.

And Frank knew, without a doubt, that there would be enough dinner put to one side to feed one more hungry mouth. Tears flooded his eyes and he reached out blindly to clasp his Aunt's hand.

He felt, rather than saw, her gaze turn to rest on him. But he heard her voice with utter clarity: "Let's say Grace."

* * *

The lights had been dimmer but, when he was left alone again, they were cranked right up to their full intensity. And with light came an unwelcome return of the noise.

Joe groaned and used one arm to shield his eyes. His retching had provoked an intense thirst in him and he wondered if his captors had thought to leave him water. Drugged or not, he didn't care any more. His mouth was feeling like sandpaper and his tongue felt three sizes too big.

Twisting around, his shoulder bumped into something solid and he squinted upwards. And then he cursed his own stupidity.

Right next to the toilet was a washbasin. A washbasin with taps and, therefore, with running water – which would be much more complex to drug than a simple paper cup. How had he not thought about it before?

Using the basin itself as leverage, Joe hauled himself upright and cranked on the cold tap. There was a creak and a groan – and Joe continued twisting. A sound – which he could only describe as a 'glug' and some dirty brown water slowly trickled into the basin. It sputtered, almost stopped and then trickled out some more – equally as filthy as that which had gone before it.

Joe groaned inwardly. He couldn't contemplate even trying to drink that. Without holding out much hope, he tried the hot tap. He opened it up as far as he could, but nothing happened. He never even got a trickle.

Belatedly, he attempted to flush the toilet, but the cistern just made a hollow clunking sound – confirming that there was no actual plumbing going into his cell, in spite of appearances.

Shaking his head, Joe looked back over his shoulder. As he'd known there would be, a paper cup sat just inside his cell door.

* * *

Dinner was a sombre affair. The four people sitting around the table merely went through the motions – eating because they had to and because it would be of no benefit to anybody if they went hungry. Conversation was non-existent and all of their thoughts were someplace else.

Fenton and Sam were inwardly still doing their jobs: mulling over the facts; trying to come up with a new plan of action; striving to maintain some professionalism because the only alternative was to sink into hopeless despair.

Gertrude held tightly on to her quiet faith. It was all that she had and her prayers were the only help she could offer.

And Frank pushed meatloaf and potatoes around his plate, taking the occasional bite for the sake of appearance. Each taste threatened to choke him as his thoughts descended towards darkness.

It began with the pessimistic wondering as to whether Joe was being allowed the luxury of food. That, in turn, led to further futile wonderings – was his brother hurt? Was he scared? Had he yet been so totally broken by his captors that he was already thinking about taking his own life? What the hell was happening to his kid brother while he sat there blithely eating meatloaf?

Giving up even the pretence of eating, he pushed his plate away and flung his napkin onto the table. He felt the other three all pause to look at him – and he kept his eyes firmly downwards.

"Frank…" His dad, inevitably, tried to get through to him – but Frank didn't want to listen. Anger was beginning to fester within him and now was not the time for him to unleash it. Not with Aunt Gertrude still sitting at the table.

"I need some air," he ground out; getting abruptly to his feet.

"Frank." Now the word was a warning and the rest of it didn't need to be spelt out to him: _Don't go out alone; don't become the next victim; don't let him take you, too._

Frank's restraint was just about gone. The explosion was imminent and he didn't think he'd be able to keep it all in – no matter who might be there to witness it. He couldn't keep it locked away inside any more.

Then Sam's voice came to his rescue: "Come on, Frank. Let's take a walk."

* * *

They only made it as far as the back porch. Though the newshounds had left them alone for a while, Frank didn't want to risk a confrontation with someone who had a camera shoved in his face – not when he was currently so far on the edge that it was only a matter of time before he snapped.

At least it was fresh air – even if the darkening sky carried the threat of rain.

Frank and Sam sat down on the steps and then Sam just waited; knowing that his friend would talk when he was ready – and willing to simply be the sounding board for whatever he needed to get off his chest.

He didn't have to wait long.

"He killed an unborn baby, Sam. He murdered that woman's unborn child. What kind of a monster could do something like that?" Once the bitter outpouring began, Frank was helpless to stop: "He has no morals, no conscience, no regard for human life! Why would dad not want me to know that? How can he say that he's not a murderer, just because the law won't recognise that baby as a person? Dad does – I know he does. Houghton was a killer all along, but dad didn't think it was important for me to know that! How can that be right, Sam? How could he let me believe..? How could he let me think..?"

"What, Frank?" Sam asked quietly, as the boy trailed off into silence.

"If Joe is returned to us, then I swear that nothing will happen to him." He looked at Sam and his eyes blazed with intensity. "I'll stay by his side for the rest of my _life_ if I have to. I won't let him kill himself; I won't let Houghton win." Then the light that had been born of passion transformed into unshed tears and he dropped his gaze. "But now I can't even believe that Joe will come back. Now I know that Houghton's a killer and if he can murder an unborn baby, what the hell might he be doing to Joe? And now…" He swallowed heavily and turned desperate eyes back towards his friend. "Now I don't know if I'll be able to save him."

TBC


	24. Chapter 24

Thanks, as ever, for the reviews. Disclaimer as in chapter one. Just as an extra warning: there are some rough times ahead and things will get worse before they get better.

BLAME

Joe's vision was blurred. Maybe it was because his eyes were constantly streaming as a result of the incessant bright lights. Maybe he had taken one too many blows to the head and done some damage to his optic nerves. Maybe it was just because he was so damned tired that even thinking straight was a chore.

He squinted, but that only served to degenerate his vision even further. One blurred paper cup became two – possibly even three – severely out-of-focus cups and his stomach threatened to expel whatever might have been left in it.

Joe wiped one hand across the back of his mouth. He needed the water to dispel the roughness in his throat; the stale taste left by his heaving. He no longer worried about being drugged – he'd long since passed the point where he could even consider the option of not drinking.

There didn't appear to be any food with it and he was mildly thankful for that. His stomach couldn't take it any more.

He continued to hold onto the basin for some semblance of balance, but his knees were weak and his legs felt like jelly. The moment he let go of the ceramic edge, he almost collapsed again. He had to lean heavily against the cell bars to make any progress at all.

As one uncertain step followed another, Joe's eyes narrowed – but it had nothing to do with his compromised vision. There was no paper plate alongside the cup, but there was something else on the floor of his cell. It looked like a blank sheet of paper.

Curious, confused and afraid, Joe finally reached his goal and collapsed onto the floor of the cell. The water was momentarily forgotten as he reached a trembling hand towards the piece of paper – which seemed more out of place than something so mundane really should.

He could see through the thin paper that there was something on the other side and his heart began to race as he turned it over.

His mother's face smiling back up at him was the cruellest – and most devastating – blow dealt to him so far.

* * *

Sam didn't speak for a long time. It would have been too easy to offer empty assurances – and they were not what Frank needed to hear. He had to choose his words carefully.

"I don't know how much you know," he said, eventually. "And your dad might string me up for telling you this, but he never lied to you. Twelve years ago, your dad never believed Houghton was a killer. Profiling wasn't as advanced as it is now – but it was still a valid and widely used resource. Everything pointed to him being a manipulator; not a murderer."

"But…" Frank tried to interrupt; tried to offer the same argument he had to Con: dead was dead and the rest was just semantics.

"I'm not talking about pro-life debates here, Frank," Sam overrode him. "You know how your dad feels – you told me yourself – and that baby's death hit him hard. It hit us all hard. But we think that Emily knowingly – and willingly – took the drug…"

"No!" Frank shouted out the denial; appalled by what he was hearing. "No mother would do that!"

"They might, given the alternative." Sam's voice became increasingly grim. "Emily begged for her child to die peacefully and painlessly. What do you think Houghton might have threatened her with to make her do that? What do you think he did to her?"

Frank felt physically sick. All he could do was shake his head and look away.

"And then there was your mom…" Even Sam's voice threatened to break at that.

"Sam… don't… please…" The teenager could barely choke out a response. His anger was gone, but he hated the despair that had settled in its place.

"I don't believe, for one minute, that Houghton intended to kill your mom." Sam spoke with fervour now. He had a message to get across and, if he had to awaken some recent raw and painful memories in order to do so, then so be it. "I think it was meant to be a scare – maybe an attempt to snatch one, or both of them. But he can't possibly have known that Laura wasn't wearing her seatbelt. And that's the only reason she died."

Frank didn't answer; didn't even raise his head.

"I'm trying to make a point here, Frank," Sam pressed gamely on. "Your dad was right when he said Houghton isn't a killer. Joe will come home, Frank. I promise you that. The rest…" He grasped the younger man's shoulder. "The rest is up to you."

"The rest of my life, if that's what it takes," Frank vowed in response – reiterating the promise he had made before and meaning it one thousand percent.

* * *

It was a picture off their website – the one that he and Frank had set up together. It was nothing to do with investigations; made no mention of the detective business. The website was only devoted to friends and family. To happy times.

There were pages devoted to each of them – to the whole family and all of their closest friends. The picture of his mom was a recent one – she looked exactly the same as she had the last time Joe had seen her. He tried to remember if she was even wearing the same sweater. He knew it was one of her favourites.

Then the images from his nightmare slammed back into his mind – vivid and terrifying, even though they weren't actually a memory. His mom's dead face dominated his mind's eye; but he couldn't see if her sweater matched the one in the picture, because it was covered in blood…

The memory of the nightmare dominated his entire existence and even the printed picture blurred as tears trickled from his eyes and dripped onto the paper – which he clutched in his fists as though his life depended on it.

He didn't even register the noise suddenly being silenced for a brief moment. But he did notice when the speakers blared back into life – and deafened him with a new, sickeningly repetitive message:

_Mother-killer; matricide._

_Mother-killer; matricide._

_Mother-killer; matricide._

Joe leant his head against the bars and curled up into a ball. His final, tiny piece of resistance crumbled into dust and he was left completely broken. Sobs shuddered through him and he clutched the picture of his mom to his chest; as though he was somehow giving her one last hug. Rational thought scattered and he began to rock, gently. And all he could do was cry.

* * *

They had taken the chair out of the 'interrogation room'. When Houghton and Carl next dragged Joe in there, he was forced to stand. It took Carl's brute strength – utilising a hefty grip on both his arms – to keep him upright.

Houghton – as had become habit – began to pace in front of Joe.

"I have some more questions for you, Joseph," his tormentor said, but his tone was a lot calmer than it had previously been. "Simple questions – a yes or no answer will suffice."

Joe didn't answer; he barely even heard the words. He just looked at his tormentor through red-rimmed and bloodshot eyes.

"First question." Houghton was unphased by the zombie-like stare of the boy in front of him. To him, it was a sign of success. "Has your brother ever had a car accident? Ever had a fender-bender; put a dent in your folks' car?"

Joe's eyes dropped and fresh tears spilled down his cheeks. He didn't have the capacity to answer the question and his thoughts were fragmented and almost formless. _Frank smiling at him from the driver's seat of some unidentifiable vehicle; Frank helping him when he'd finally come of an age to learn to drive; Frank careful and methodical in everything he did._ He didn't even know that he was shaking his head, until Houghton spoke again:

"How about your dad? I'm not talking about high-speed chases here – but just normal, everyday driving. Like…" He paused for sadistic effect: "Like grocery shopping, maybe?"

More broken and detached memories came: _"If you get so much as a scratch on the car…" Sailing through a green light. "You can drive to the shelter…" His mother's dead face. Her eyes opening. Her corpse's smile. "It was an accident…"_

Joe sagged in his captor's grip – but Carl merely readjusted and hauled him back into some semblance of being upright.

"There was nothing, Joseph." Houghton picked a tan folder up off the table and leafed through it. "Nothing. Not a police report, not an insurance claim. Nothing. And then you got behind the wheel." He closed the folder and used it to tap Joe gently on the chest. "And so that brings me to my next question – and I want you to think very carefully about this one: if anyone but you had been driving the car, do you think that your mom would have died?"

Joe heard those words – somehow they penetrated through the fog in his mind. He did more than hear them; he felt them. He felt them like hammer blows to his battered psyche and he knew the answer somewhere deep within his soul.

_Mother-killer; matricide._

He had killed his mom. Joe unconsciously shook his head and Houghton's twisted truth – that he had no way of trying to deny – threatened to rob him of breath; to rob him of the very will to live.

His eyes drifted downwards – away from the triumphant sneer of his captor – and they alighted on the picture of his mom. He had held it so tightly that Carl had torn it from his grasp as they entered the room. Now it lay crumpled and torn on the floor.

His mom's face was distorted and unrecognisable. Even in the picture, she was dead.

And he had killed her.

He vaguely heard Houghton mockingly ask: "How can you possibly believe it wasn't your fault?"

The answer came to him without thought. It was in the agony that spiked through his heart; the guilt that seared his soul.

He had killed his own mother. How was he supposed to live with that?

TBC


	25. Chapter 25

Apologies for the delay in updating, but work is hectic right now, so the chapters may be a LITTLE slower coming – but I'll try to keep delays to a minimum! Thanks, as ever, for the reviews. Disclaimer as in chapter one.

BLAME

Sam convinced Frank to go back inside the house. Late evening had descended into night and the threatened rain had just begun to fall.

When they re-entered the kitchen, only Fenton remained and both of them figured that Gertrude must have retired for the night. Whether she was tired or not, she was astute enough to recognise that the three men needed to talk – and it would be on a subject they were not willing to discuss in front of her.

Her early retirement meant that they didn't have to make any excuses and descend back into the confines of Fenton's office.

Frank took a deep, steadying breath as he sat back down at the kitchen table. He and Sam had been gone long enough for the table to be cleared and the crockery put through the dishwasher.

He looked at his dad. Honesty was important right now – and so he maintained eye contact. "I'm sorry," he said.

"No, Frank. I am." Fenton had had his own time of contemplation – and had also endured his sister's piercing gaze drilling through him as she cleaned up the kitchen. "I never meant to mislead you."

"It doesn't matter, dad." Frank offered a grim smile. "Sam…" He exchanged a glance with the man in question. "Sam explained a few things. Now we just need to focus on finding Joe."

The conversation back on track, Sam chimed in: "Has the FBI been back in contact? Any word on Sherrie?"

"Not yet." Fenton scrubbed one hand over his face; exhaustion creeping up on him. He had slept badly the night before and suspected the same was true of Frank. He knew for a fact that Sam had spent the night on an airplane. He sighed. "We should probably turn in. The feds could call at any time. We'll need to be alert."

Frank heaved out a sigh of his own. His dad telling him to rest only reinforced how damned helpless he was feeling. He _could_ rest, but only because there was nothing else to do. Every conventional avenue was being thoroughly explored by the local PD – a quick call from Con had reassured them of that.

He briefly considered typing 'Sherrie' into a search engine and then shuddered inwardly as he imagined the tens of thousands – if not hundreds of thousands – of results such a search might generate. It wouldn't even be like looking for a needle in a haystack; more like looking for a needle in a field of needles.

Sighing again – and realising that his one hope of finding a lead was an impossible one – Frank zoned back in on the conversation. His dad was inviting Sam to stay the night.

"You can sleep…" Fenton trailed off embarrassedly. Where _could _Sam sleep? The guest room had been taken by Gertrude; the couch was reserved for him; the bedroom he had once shared with Laura was still strictly off-limits; and it simply didn't feel right to offer the use of Joe's room.

"You can sleep in my room." Frank came to the rescue. He knew he would again spend the night trying to be as close as he possibly could be to his brother – even if that was only by sleeping atop his bed.

* * *

Joe didn't even know that he'd been taken back to his cell. One cold floor was swapped for another and his pain – from everything he had endured at the hands of Houghton and Carl from the onset of his captivity – was a constant companion.

But he never even felt the physical pain any more. The mental anguish was all consuming.

He lay on the floor of his cell – arms wrapped around his midriff and knees drawn upwards towards his stomach.

Words – condemning words – reverberated around his brain, but he was too far gone to realise that those words were only inside his head,

He lay in silence and in darkness but, still, Joe couldn't find the peace he craved.

His eyes were open and he stared into black nothingness – but he didn't see the darkness. Instead, he was staring inwardly; remembering the picture of his mother. He had to concentrate to hold onto the image – to remember her laughing eyes and radiant smile. If he lost his focus, even for a second, the picture crumpled and distorted and became the obscene image he had last seen lying on the interrogation room floor.

Joe frowned as he strove to keep his mental image intact. He wasn't even aware of the tears any more.

And, as much as he couldn't control his grief – he had no knowledge of his mouth silently mouthing the same words over and over:

"_I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."_

* * *

Frank awoke with a start – having very little memory of actually going to sleep. But he still didn't feel rested. Though he couldn't recall having dreamed, the rapid beating of his heart and his shortened breath were physical evidence that he'd been caught in the grip of a nightmare.

Absently, he reached up to rub one hand over his face. Then he withdrew that hand and stared at it, almost uncomprehendingly. His palm still sheened from the tears he had wiped away.

"_God, Joe. Where are you?"_

Rubbing at his treacherous eyes again, Frank went through his morning routine in a numb, detached state.

His brother had now been missing for almost two whole days and they still had no clue where to look for him. Two days had proved crucial in the past – as far as Houghton was concerned. It was all he needed to completely destroy a life.

Stepping out of the shower, Frank briefly considered shaving. Then he looked down at his hands – at the way they trembled minutely and had done since the moment Joe had been taken – and decided against it. If nothing else, a couple of day's growth of stubble would give Joe something to tease him about when he came home.

"Today, kiddo." Frank promised, staring intently into the mirror. And his reflection transformed into his brother's handsome face, as he spoke those words aloud. "Today."

And then the phone rang.

Frank darted out into the hallway – still wearing only a towel. The phone stopped ringing, but Frank snatched up the extension anyway. He was just in time to hear the tail-end of his dad's greeting to Special Agent Adrian Mason.

There was an extremely brief exchange of cordialities and then Frank offered a silent prayer of thanks, as Mason said the words they had been longing to hear:

"We've got an address."

* * *

Joe slept – but, like his brother, he had no memory of going to sleep. He didn't even know he had closed his eyes. That action only resulted in one darkness being exchanged for another. But the deeper darkness resided in his soul – and it was that darkness that prompted the nightmares.

Unlike Frank, he wasn't blessed with no memory of his dreams. Every moment was as stark and clear as a video playing in his head:

_An intersection. A green light. Joe gently accelerated. Then he saw the Buick and swerved hard to avoid a collision. Then suddenly, another Buick was bearing down on him from the left. He swerved again – straight into the path of a Buick coming towards him head on._

_Joe glanced in the rear view mirror – and saw a sea of Buicks speeding towards him. And Houghton grinned at him from behind every steering wheel._

_Joe panicked. He didn't know what to do! _

_He sawed wildly at the steering wheel and then the telegraph pole reared up in his vision. _

_Impact was loud but, strangely, Joe felt nothing. His seatbelt was snug across his chest and hips. The car flipped; spun spectacularly. But Joe's seatbelt held him firm and comfortable. It was like being on a not very scary rollercoaster._

_But his mom was screaming next to him – and blood was beginning to stain the windows, the seats, the entire interior of the car…_

And that was when he woke. The lights were back on and there were muted background noises.

It wasn't a shout any more – it was a whisper. But the accusations were still the same:

_Matricide. Mother-killer._

The insidious words crippled him as deeply as when they had been screamed at him. But now they were more than an accusation.

Now, to him, they were a fact.

Joe had been made to believe what he had been told; was forced to accept it as the truth.

He had killed his mother.

Vaguely remembering the brief oblivion he had once found, Joe slowly – almost subconsciously – lifted his head a couple of inches off the floor. Then he let it drop again. New pain didn't even register over the old. He repeated the action, letting his head bang onto the floor for a second time.

When he tried to do it a third time, he felt hands suddenly grab him.

"Not yet, killer." Houghton growled at him. "You wanna kill yourself, that's all well and good. But not before we get your confession."

* * *

'Sherrie' turned out to be Cheryl Matthews and she had been Houghton's father's midlife crisis. She had been his other woman; his affair.

That was all they knew on the back of a six a.m. phone call. It was all they needed to know. Details might come later, but they could wait.

The only important fact was that Sherrie died – and she left behind a big, empty property. It was the address of said property that Mason provided them with.

But the information came with a gruff warning attached: "We're mobilising a task force in conjunction with the local PD. We're moving now, so if you want to be a part of it…"

"We're on our way." Fenton shot back, without hesitation.

Frank dropped the phone – not caring if it was heard and gave away his eavesdropping. They were going to find Joe.

Dashing back into his bedroom, he dressed in record time. As he did, he thought about the address they'd been given. 'Ocean View' was the highest point of Bayport; situated overlooking Shore Road – the main thoroughfare in and out of Bayport.

It was mostly ignored by the locals; having fallen into disrepair as wealthy owners died and adverse weather played havoc with the ancient structures, thus deterring any future investors.

Ocean View was a part of Bayport's past – but it was also the place where Sherrie died.

Isolated, virtually inaccessible and with rumours from local kids (as was bound to be the case) of hauntings, it was no wonder that the place had fallen off even Bayport's map.

Frank thundered down the stairs – and then virtually collided with his dad and Sam. Both men looked equally dishevelled as he felt and shaving had been forsaken by them all.

Excited and adrenaline pumped, Frank allowed himself an inward smile. Joe would have a field day seeing all of them sporting the 'Miami Vice' look.

He couldn't wait to hear him tease.

TBC


	26. Chapter 26

Thanks, as ever, for the reviews. Disclaimer as in chapter one.

BLAME

Joe was hauled unceremoniously back to the interrogation room – but, in truth, he was barely even aware of being taken from his cell.

He barely had any coherent thought any more.

For once he wasn't handcuffed, but there was no fight left in him – and he stood where he was made to stand; his arms hanging limply at his sides.

When a sheet of paper was thrust at him, he grabbed it with trembling hands. Then he could only stare uncomprehendingly at the printed script it contained.

He didn't know what was expected of him. He didn't even care.

His mother's face. His accuser's voice. That was all he cared about. That was the focus of his very existence. And it was on the verge of destroying him completely.

"Confess."

The word was just a whisper in his ear; unidentifiable as to who had uttered it. But it pounded another nail into his self-condemnatory coffin. Confession was supposed to be good for the soul. And, God, Joe needed _something_ – anything to ease the all-encompassing agony that enshrouded him.

He raised his empty gaze towards the man who stood in front of him; barely recognising him as Graham Houghton.

"How..?" he whispered – not even realising how much it sounded like a desperate plea.

"Read it." Houghton nodded down at the paper Joe still held. "Read your confession aloud and be free."

Joe squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. He could never be free.

"Read it." His captor repeated. "And you'll be free to find absolution. Free to mete out justice exactly where it's deserved. Free to punish your mother's killer; to make her _murderer_ pay – in whatever way you see fit."

Joe gasped as understanding struck. He was Judge, Jury and Executioner. He alone could ensure that his mother got true justice.

And all it would take was him reading from a single piece of paper.

* * *

Optimism was a frightening phenomena, Frank realised as Sam drove them at reckless speed towards the precinct. He had felt nothing but utter despair for two whole days – but now they finally had something solid to go on.

Frank was a little chagrined that it had taken the FBI to give them that optimism, but he wasn't about to let that get in his way. His dad had already rebuilt some bridges with Mason and Carr – and he wasn't above putting his own prejudices aside. Not if it meant finding Joe.

In fact, he would gladly shake both agents by the hand once all of this was over.

He could even inwardly hope that they get their man – or men as the case may be. An ideal scenario would see both Houghton and Stafford apprehended at the house on Ocean View – but Frank knew that life rarely threw up an ideal scenario.

So, come what may, Frank felt he would be able to wish Mason and Carr 'all the best' in their continuing manhunt. After all, if both men were caught, then it was two less villains for the Hardys to worry about.

The car suddenly fishtailed. Tyres squealed and Sam slammed his palm flat down onto the horn. It blared deafeningly, even as Sam regained control and accelerated away from the errant driver who had somehow failed to sense their urgency.

Frank wildly wondered if Collig could be convinced to provide them with a 'bubble light' – the kind seen on countless undercover cop shows. Then he almost laughed out loud at the very concept.

When his father half-turned to spare him a strange glance, Frank realised that he might have allowed some of his laughter to escape. He tried to school his expression into neutrality; even as he realised that pure adrenaline was driving his every emotion.

They were on their way to rescue Joe and he simply couldn't wait to be reunited with his kid brother again.

Yes, it had only been two days but, to Frank, it felt like a whole lot longer. He didn't know exactly what was happening to Joe – but he did know that it had to be horrific. What would it take to drive someone to suicide? What mind-games? What tortures, both mental and physical?

Frank's heart began to pound and cold fear settled into his stomach. He was suddenly glad that he had forsaken breakfast, because nausea settled right alongside his fear.

He sought to retrieve the optimism that had so gripped him earlier. Yes, Houghton had driven someone to suicide in just two days, but Joe wasn't just 'someone'. He was Joe Hardy – and he was stronger than any seventeen-year-old ever should have to be.

Frank had to believe in Joe. Had to believe that his brother's fortitude would win out; that, when they reached the house on Ocean View, he would find Joe – damaged, maybe, but not irreparably broken.

* * *

Joe didn't intentionally stall. He was just lost and confused and hovering on the verge of complete disintegration.

He was supposed to read from a piece of paper, but he couldn't even see the words because his vision was blurred by a million unshed tears.

"Mother-killer! Matricide!" But now the words weren't heard electronically through a loud-speaker. Now they were shouted in his ear by a real and _human_ voice. "Mother-killer! Matricide!"

Joe wanted to cover his ears, but that was not an option. It would mean him letting go of the oh-so-important piece of paper; letting go of his chance of closure.

He blinked – and then blinked again, as some of those million tears threatened to fall.

His eyes finally finding their focus, Joe began by saying the date printed at the top of the page. His voice was hoarse; barely more than a whisper.

"Speak up." Houghton was relentless. "Do it right, or stay here forever."

Joe's senses were suddenly bombarded with recent memories: cruel words and harsh accusations; condemnation after condemnation; blame and guilt… And his mother's face smiling up at him from a picture off a website.

He had to escape from this. He couldn't take this torture any more; not now he had reconciled to the truth he'd been forced to accept. He had to be allowed to do what was right.

He looked at the paper and read the date out again. This time his voice was stronger – still ravaged by a myriad of emotions, but definitely audible.

When there was no further interruption, he continued reading:

"My name is Joseph Hardy and I killed my mother."

* * *

A briefing room had been set up within the confines of the Bayport Police Precinct. Unused to such a large-scale operation, the room was fit to burst; mostly with FBI agents. Mason and Carr had clearly called in some heavy reinforcements.

When the Hardys and Sam arrived, they were greeted by Chief Collig – who was visibly bristling at the implicit implication that his own people couldn't handle the situation. Expertly, he guided the three of them away from the melee and into an empty Interview Room.

Frank was on edge the second the door closed. He glanced around, looking for a window – but all he found was two-way glass. He couldn't see out of the room and his agitation grew as he feared the taskforce might mobilise without them.

"Relax, Frank. I've got the warrant in my pocket." Collig patted his uniform jacket for emphasis. "They had to use a local judge and I called in a favour or two." He offered a wry smile. "If they want anything to stick – and, trust me, they do – they'll wait."

"Ezra, thank you." Fenton felt that his words were nothing like enough; not even close to conveying his gratitude. But they were all he had.

Collig brushed it off with typical gruffness: "Save it until we bring Joe home."

"How sure can we be that they're even there?" Frank asked – thinking of the sheer volume of people who were gathering. Surely they had more to go on than an old acquaintance's sudden demise.

"The Feds are all over this like you wouldn't believe," Collig explained – sounding distinctly irritated by the fact. "They had a chopper up over the View before the sun was even up. Thermal cameras picked up definite heat signatures." He put up one hand, forestalling the inevitable question. "They could only make one pass, without risking arousing suspicion. They were just looking for life – not counting heads."

"And there was definitely somebody in there." Fenton's breath quickened with that realisation.

"And Cheryl Matthews lived alone her entire life." The Chief smiled, grimly. "That was enough for the Feds."

"Then let's go!" Frank broke in. He couldn't help but feel like they were wasting time. But Collig held up a restraining hand:

"Fenton, do you have a gun?" he asked.

"I'm licensed to carry one!" the PI snapped back.

"Alright, I'll rephrase that," Collig said with exaggerated – and false – calm. "Are you carrying a firearm right now?"

Fenton merely lifted his jacket and displayed the handgun, nestled securely in its holster.

Collig sighed and then explained the reason for his question: "The Feds aren't happy about you being involved. They…"

"No." Fenton interrupted sharply. "Adrian Mason called _me_ to tell me the address. The moment he did that, he _invited _me to be involved!"

Ezra bit his lip and looked down – and that caught Frank's attention. It was most uncharacteristic behaviour for the Chief of Police. "Alright," Collig admitted. "I don't want you going in there with a gun in your hand.

* * *

Joe continued to read. His voice shook, but he forced himself to continue. The image of some kind of freedom – even if he no longer knew what it truly entailed – drove him onwards.

The words had no meaning and were delivered in a monotone. His eyes never left the words on the paper he held.

"I am guilty of my mother's murder. I was driving the car in which she died." Joe blinked, as his exhausted eyes caused the printed words to blur. Then, still without looking up, he continued reading: "I was involved in a minor accident and I lost control of my car. I should have hit the brake, but I hit the gas instead. And then I spun the wheel; I spun it so that the passenger side was vulnerable, so that I was safe. I didn't want to die."

Water splashed down on the white paper and the words blurred again. But this time it was caused by Joe's tears – even when he believed he couldn't possibly cry any more.

The ink didn't even run and – without needing any further prompting – Joe continued. Atonement awaited him at the end.

"I spun the car so violently that, when we did stop, the impact – and the force of the momentum – crushed my… Crushed my…" He hesitated and then stopped as he read ahead and the words left a permanent imprint in his brain. The force of it left him gasping and the guilt felt almost paralysing. One way or another, he needed this to be over. And the only way he could to that was to read on. "The momentum crushed my mother's skull."

Tears were cascading down his cheeks now and he couldn't even see the page any more – let alone the words on it.

"Look at the camera." The instruction was whispered and barely audible, but Joe looked up.

He had expressive features – everyone had always said that of him. Now his eyes were red, his face was soaked with tears and he had been forced to accept the blame for the death of his mother.

Joe couldn't know it, but he made one hell of a picture for the digital camera that was recording his every action – and his every word.

TBC


	27. Chapter 27

Thanks, as ever, for the reviews. Disclaimer as in chapter one.

BLAME

Fenton turned away from his long-time friend and his lips were thinned in anger. Collig, for his part, looked distinctly uncomfortable. The Police Chief felt the need to explain himself – not something he often deigned to do:

"Fenton, you – more than anyone else – know what Houghton is capable of." His tone was as grim as his expression – and he spared a brief glance of concern towards Frank. "You know what we might find."

When Fenton merely shook his head, Sam said two words – just two words: _Kyle Kozlowski. _Then the PI's shoulders slumped and he could no longer look directly at any of them.

Frank's stomach flipped and his heart fell down to somewhere near his boots. He knew he was about to hear something that he really didn't want to – a major revelation that had, thus far, been kept from him. And probably with good reason.

He was right on both counts.

"I won't let him take my gun." When his dad eventually responded, his voice was tight and it was clear that he was barely holding onto his emotions. "I won't let him do that…"

"You're underestimating the actions of a desperate man!" Collig retorted, with a surprising depth of passion.

Frank was confused. Why would Collig be so concerned about the possibility of Houghton taking his dad's gun? Surely the felon had a weapon anyway. And, even if he didn't, then they knew that Carl Stafford was armed. He'd used a gun when he'd first taken Joe.

His confused gaze switched between his dad and Chief Collig, but he couldn't find his voice to ask the questions that burned within him. Then he saw his father's shoulders slump; watched him rub a weary hand across his eyes.

A second later, Fenton handed his gun over to Collig. And suddenly Frank _knew._

They weren't concerned about Houghton taking the weapon. They were worried about _Joe_ doing it.

"Tell me," he whispered – but his voice was strangled and didn't sound even remotely like his own.

The two older men exchanged a glance. Then Fenton turned his back, but he also somehow implicitly gave Collig permission to tell the story.

* * *

_Kyle Kozlowski was just a few days away from his twenty-first birthday when Houghton took him. He never lived to reach that milestone. _

_Houghton held him for sixty-five hours and then released him – pushing him out of a slow moving car on a little used side road less than five miles away from his home. Then Kyle had merely sat down and waited. _

_A police patrol found him and he was instantly recognised by the attending officer. Kyle's disappearance had been high-profile and his family had both money and influence._

_Not seeing the young man as a threat – and possibly already imagining the plaudits he'd receive for being his rescuer – Officer Jason Darby had approached him with minimal caution. He never saw the need to be on his guard._

_Kyle had smiled at Officer Darby and had even taken the hand extended to him to help him to his feet. Then, as Darby followed procedure and spoke into his radio to request an ambulance, Kyle grabbed the gun from its holster and put it in his own mouth._

_The dispatcher heard the shot._

_Units were dispatched, investigations and enquiries followed and Jason Darby never worked as a cop again – though that was through personal choice and not any sanction._

_But Kyle Kozlowski was still dead._

* * *

Frank's heart was pounding by the time Collig had finished recounting the tale. Relief flooded through him as he thought about his dad's gun being safely confiscated – but then he had no choice but to think about how many other guns would be available should Joe prove to be at the house on Ocean View.

He made a mental note to be on guard for every eventuality – even if it might mean restraining his own brother, should he go for a weapon. He was prepared to do whatever it took – no matter who might try to get in his way.

Frank looked for a window again – and again found only the two-way glass. He glanced at his watch instead. It was almost nine and now time was just wasting away.

The need to get there – to get to Joe – pressed down on him like a physical weight. And the clock was still ticking in his head: _Tick-Tock_. Time was running out.

As if on cue, Collig glanced at his own watch.

"We should get moving," he said. "The briefing should be about over by now."

"Briefing?" Both Fenton and Frank latched onto the word. They exchanged a glance, both sharing the same thought: shouldn't they be a part of any briefing? Then both sets of eyes turned to focus on Ezra Collig.

The Police Chief was unphased by the twin glares that were suddenly directed at him. He had expected this exact reaction. He sighed and then answered the unasked question: "You weren't included in the briefing because you'll be waiting in the car until we've had the chance to clear the house."

Frank shook his head, every part of him tensed in anger. They were possibly about an hour away from finding Joe – and he was being told to stay in the car? He didn't think he'd be physically capable of maintaining such restraint.

"Ezra, you can't!" Fenton clearly felt the same way. They were almost in touching distance of Joe – and they were being told they would have to wait. Impossible was an understatement, giving the way he was feeling.

Collig got to his feet and nailed the father and son with a glare of his own. "Houghton wants to hurt you," he explained – his tone hard and unyielding. "If he sees you, it might provoke him into doing something rash. You might endanger Joe's life."

Frank was nodding in vehement agreement as Collig spelt out the ugly possible eventuality. But he couldn't see why that argument would prevent him from going in. In fact, it made more sense that he did. Joe would need to see a friendly face.

Unfortunately, Collig read his expression all too easily – even through his apparent acquiescence. "The same goes for you, Frank." He was quick to include the teenager in the ban. "We're not giving Houghton any more ammunition. He already has your brother as a bargaining chip. We won't give him the chance to get you, too."

"I won't…" Frank tried to argue – but it was an argument he was destined to lose. He wasn't even given the chance to completely voice it.

"No, you won't," Collig overrode him. "Because you'll be in the car. Don't make me threaten to handcuff you to the doors." He smiled as he made the threat – but there was absolutely no humour in it; and no trace of a bluff.

* * *

"That is why she died – and why I am responsible." Joe continued to read from the sheet – his eyes alternating between the paper and the camera. Now he knew of its presence, he couldn't stop glancing at it.

A pen was suddenly thrust at him and he started. For the past few minutes all that existed was his confession. As he spoke the words aloud, they began to ring ever more truly; weighing him down with guilt.

He still had no memory of the accident – but he believed everything he had read. Even down to the way his mom had died.

He wanted to collapse to his knees; to find atonement; to willingly accept whatever punishment was meted out to him – by the law, or whoever else decided his fate.

He just needed for it to stop.

"Sign the bottom of the page and then read the next one." The instruction was hissed at him in a stage-whisper and Joe complied with shaking hands.

The damning signature in place, Joe turned the page and continued to read – still without giving pause to consider the words that he said:

"A murderer needs to face justice and that is the purpose of my confession." Again, his eyes flickered involuntarily towards the camera. "I need to be punished for what I did. She must have justice. Laura Hardy…" A sob restricted his words and his vision blurred again. "She…" He couldn't say her full name again. "She needs to have her killer punished. _I_ need to be punished – and to the full extent of the law. In New York State, that would be the Death Penalty."

* * *

Squad cars, police vans, FBI unmarked sedans and a SWAT unit all raced towards the rundown houses on Ocean View – that had once been the exclusive residence of Bayport's wealthiest.

Lights flashed and sirens screamed; even though, at such an early hour, there was very little traffic in their way. The occasion somehow demanded it.

Then the convoy turned up the steep, cliff-side road that lead off Shore Road – and the lights were extinguished, the sirens silenced. No point in alerting the quarry to their arrival.

Frank tensed as they crested a hill and the first of the upmarket houses came into view. Most were clearly abandoned. A few of them still had residents and the cars in those inhabited driveways reflected the very essence of Ocean View: a Bentley, a Daimler – and Frank thought he even caught a glimpse of a Rolls Royce.

The cars were old, but classics – and were also incredibly expensive. They epitomised the houses whose driveways they inhabited. This was the last of Bayport's 'old money' – and, as Sherrie had so recently proved, it was slowly dying out.

Then they turned a corner. Frank leant forwards as two vehicles peeled off. Craning his neck as their car passed them, he saw the officers get out. Leaving the doors wide open, they drew their guns and crouched ready. They were the first phase of the roadblocks – should things go wrong.

Feeling the blood drain from his face as adrenaline kicked in – and he was forced to clamp down on his anticipation; knowing he would be sitting on his hands whilst Joe was possibly being rescued. He followed the aim of the cops' guns and finally looked at Sherrie's house.

The car they were in drew to a gentle halt. For a long moment, no words were spoken.

Frank wanted to leap from the car – to follow the armed officers and FBI agents; but they were in the back of a squad car – and those car doors didn't open from the inside. Plus, Ezra Collig was sitting stiffly in the front seat. He wasn't about to be reasoned with, pleaded with, cajoled, or threatened.

He hadn't even allowed Sam in on the bust – though he blamed the FBI for that. They had accepted the potential usefulness of Fenton and Frank being there – but had drawn the line at a third 'civilian' tagging along.

Sam had bristled – and not only at the implicit insult at being labelled a 'civilian' – but had had no choice but to acquiesce. The task force was getting ready to move and he was only delaying their departure; so he had gracelessly offered to keep Gertrude company during the indeterminable wait ahead.

So they were all definitely going to sit this one out.

Frank felt tears fill his eyes. They were so damned close to reaching Joe. He couldn't wait; couldn't seat idly by.

The back of the squad car was beginning to feel like a prison.

Then Frank felt his dad lean in closer to him; felt fingers brush against his own. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the house in front of him – but he could still seek comfort from his dad. And maybe he could try and offer some in return.

Blindly, desperately, he grasped his father's hand and then clung onto it like he might never let go.

Car doors slammed and the grip on Frank's hand tightened – Fenton's own desperation being somehow transmitted to him.

This was, in all likelihood, Joe's prison. And they were being forced to sit and wait – forbidden from trying to help rescue him.

TBC


	28. Chapter 28

Thanks, as ever, for the reviews. Disclaimer as in chapter one.

BLAME

Father and son watched in absolute silence as the rest of the vehicles emptied – and the various law enforcement agencies worked seamlessly together; deploying quickly and efficiently to surround Sherrie's old house.

It should have been a sight to inspire confidence; even admiration. But neither Fenton nor Frank could appreciate the intense amount of effort it must have taken to coordinate things so perfectly.

They could only feel helpless and frustrated. Even angry.

Anything might be happening within that house – and there were still a million things that could go wrong.

And if things went wrong when they were so close to Joe…

"Chief…" Frank was the first to break and addressed the unmoving form of Ezra Collig; still sitting stiffly in the driver's seat of the patrol car.

"No." Collig spoke without moving – not even the slightest turn of his head. And, though Frank couldn't see his face, he knew that the Chief didn't even blink.

Then the brief, almost non-existent conversation was forgotten as the head of the task force – Agent Adrian Mason, in whom they had at least a little faith – held up his right hand.

He counted down on his fingers as simultaneous orders were communicated by radio: _Three, Two, One. GO!_

It was a synchronised assault. And – synchronised – around a dozen silent alarms were all triggered within the house.

* * *

The houses were old, but 'top of the range'. When built, they had every mod-con installed. When obscenely wealthy owners moved in, those mod-cons evolved into every must-have gadget on the market.

Time passed by and must-have gadgets were replaced by the ones that fulfilled the growing need for home security. Every door and window was alarmed – all originally directly linked to a private Home Security Company. Then that Company had gone bust and the alarms were directed inwards.

The raucous bells and screeching alarms were considered ineffective. Not only was there no longer anyone around to respond to such an alarm but, nine times out of ten, the casual passer-by would ignore anything that did not directly concern them.

In Sherrie's mind, that was just a sad reflection of society.

She fitted every door and every window – and even her fireplaces – with silent alarms and each one of them was hooked up so as to only ever sound in her basement.

As the years had passed in isolation, her paranoia grew and she practically lived her entire life in the basement. There was only one way down to her – and she was guaranteed of sufficient warning before anyone put even one foot on the top stair.

She converted the space – dividing it up into two separate rooms and even attempting to install a bathroom; though that plan had come unstuck due to the inadequate plumbing in the old house.

But she still planned everything else meticulously; measuring and re-measuring until everything was perfect. She found herself a place where – even in today's cruel and uncertain world – she could feel completely safe. The two rooms – to the naked eye – looked to fill the whole basement space. It was impossible to notice that one of them concealed a state-of-the-art panic room.

She always wondered at people who built such a room in their attic. There was no easy escape from an attic.

And that, again, set new fears spiralling within her – as safety and security became something beyond an obsession to her. She developed an almost uncontrollable fear of being trapped – of her supposedly 'safe' room becoming her tomb – and so she had an escape route built in.

Treacherous, even in the best of conditions, she had an exit built out of the panic room – leading directly onto the cliffs of Bayport Heights.

* * *

"Time's up."

Houghton smiled grimly when Carl said those words. He had known this would happen. He just hadn't expected it to happen quite so quickly.

But Graham Houghton was a long way removed from being stupid. He'd underestimated Fenton Hardy all those years ago – and had taken steps not to do the same again. Even though he'd been interrupted sooner than he'd anticipated, all was not lost.

He also knew that Carl wasn't as patient as he was. The henchman had made it abundantly clear that the potential for prison was definitely not on the agenda.

A deal had been brokered and Houghton was not about to renege. He knew how tough life could be in prison – and he didn't want to attract the attention of anyone even remotely connected to the mob. He had also managed to escape from a State Facility before – so, equally, he didn't want to have the wrong kind of enemies on the outside. They didn't forgive easily and gave a whole new definition to the word 'ruthless'.

"Go!" he barked at Carl – and that single word set their 'Plan B' into motion. Twelve years ago, he hadn't even considered a contingency plan; but he had most definitely learnt from his mistakes.

Carl nodded at him and their eyes locked for the merest instant. This was definitely the end of the road as far as their business relationship was concerned – and that brief glance communicated a mutual respect; an acknowledgement from one professional to another.

A few seconds later, Carl was gone – and Houghton knew he had precious little time left.

His eyes hardening, he advanced on Joe – but the boy was too far gone to respond to his implicit threat.

Though pleased that his victim was well and truly broken, Houghton didn't have the time to play games any more.

"Sign the bottom of the page," he commanded.

When Joe just stared at him through empty eyes, he knew he had to hurry things along. He slammed his hand down onto the table; got the desired flinch – even if it wasn't as extreme as he'd hoped it would be.

It didn't matter. He still had control.

"You confessed, so sign your confession." His voice was calmer now – but it was still deadly.

Barely capable of independent thought, Joe did as he was directed. He added the date when that was also demanded. Maybe now it would finally be over and he would be allowed to find absolution. Maybe then he would be left alone to find some escape from his hell.

* * *

The radio crackled and all three men inside the patrol car sat upright. Then Con's voice came through loud and clear.

Chief Collig instantly regretted staying in the same car as Fenton and Frank; but he couldn't have left them by themselves – not when Joe was in such grave danger. So now he had to live with his decision and let the Hardys listen in on Con's frantic radio call:

"_He's demanding to see Fenton; says he'll kill Joe otherwise."_

Collig inwardly cursed – and then took a brief moment to wonder if he'd explained the 'travel arrangements' to Con. It didn't matter. The threat had been made and now he had to act on it.

"Con, have you liaised with SWAT? Is there an opening? Any chance..?" Ezra had to ask – protocol demanded it.

"_SWAT can't get close. He's in the basement, backed up in a corner and with a gun to Joe's head."_ No. Con definitely didn't know that Fenton and Frank could hear this. _"He's just started a countdown… Says we've got three minutes before he pulls the trigger."_

"EZRA!" Fenton roared from the back seat. If ever the PD needed a field test as to whether a perp could break out from the back of a patrol car, then Fenton might have provided them with it.

No criminal had _ever_ been as desperate as he was at that moment in time.

But Collig was already moving. His speed belied his bulk and – mere seconds later – he, Fenton and Frank were racing towards the house.

As they ran, the fleeting thought crossed both of the older men's minds: that they should be keeping Frank away from this.

But they couldn't pause to argue; couldn't spare even a breath for an objection.

Three minutes sounded like plenty of time to get from a car to a basement. But it wasn't. Not when you had no way of tracking the passage of time; not when a second too late would result in a trigger being pulled; not when every instinct was screaming that giving into Houghton's demand was a bad idea.

Not when the next sound they heard might be a gunshot.

* * *

Joe flinched when he was suddenly grabbed around the shoulders and dragged back into the corner of the room – but that was only because the action was so totally unexpected. He had done what was demanded of him; now he was waiting for a promise to be fulfilled. He was awaiting release.

There was a noise – a sudden rush of movement – and instinct alone had him jerking away. The reaction of his captor was to shift his grasp away from his shoulders to his throat.

He could see guns and dark uniforms – and he didn't understand what was happening – but his captor was clearly unperturbed. Houghton merely discharged his gun – the report deafeningly loud in the confined space – and shouted:

"The next face I want to see is Fenton Hardy's. Or the next bullet will be going through his brain."

Another gunshot accompanied the words: "Tell him he's got three minutes, or the kid dies!" There was a third gunshot and that was followed by a frantic rush of movement around the door.

Joe closed his eyes.

He had just confessed to murdering his own mother – and his father was on his way to them. How would his dad react to the blatant truth that Joe had killed his beloved wife?

Joe didn't want to find out. It would be overwhelmingly and cripplingly painful. He knew how much _he_ hurt with the knowledge – and his dad had loved his mom a thousandfold.

He couldn't take it any more. He had signed his confession and had been promised freedom. Joe _needed _to be free. But freedom – in his mind – no longer meant a simple release from his captivity.

It meant a release from the agony brought about by guilt; by culpability; by the blame that he knew was bound to follow.

He was guilty. He had killed his mom. And now his dad – and most likely his brother – were racing into danger to try and save his life. He didn't deserve to live. He deserved the fate that inevitably awaited him: the death penalty.

How that was meted out didn't even matter. That he was killed for his sins – as per New York law – was all that mattered to him.

"Kill me," he rasped. He needed his captor to do it now – before his dad and brother got there. He didn't want them to witness his death.

"Please!" He openly begged. This was purgatory to him and he craved an end to his suffering. "Shoot me, please…" Tears streamed down his cheeks. "Kill me!"

And those were the words Fenton heard when he emerged through the doorway into the basement where Houghton was holding his son.

TBC


	29. Chapter 29

Thanks, as ever, for the reviews. Disclaimer as in chapter one.

BLAME

"_Kill me."_

Fenton wasn't the only one who heard those devastating words. Frank had been hot on his heels as they sped to the cellar – terror and dread driving them both to speeds that might have put an Olympic champion to shame. And Fenton, though older – and admittedly less fit – had somehow won the race. But it had been so close as to border on a dead-heat.

Collig's footsteps sounded on the stairs a moment later – admirably close behind them.

They were the only three in the basement – the rest having been cleared on Houghton's demand. There had been no escape for the felon and to not comply might forfeit Joe's life.

There were two doors to choose from, but only one stood ajar and had lights shining from within. They chose that open door and then Fenton came to a dead stop. Frank did the same. Shoulder to shoulder, they crowded into the doorway of the basement room. The fact that the lights were on seemed somehow incongruous, given the situation they were in.

It should have been happening in darkness and torchlight.

But the illumination in the subterranean room gave both Fenton and Frank the chance to look at Joe. And one look was all it took.

They didn't see a son or a brother; didn't see an amateur detective; a student; a high school jock; a loyal friend; a loving boyfriend. They saw a shell – barely even a person anymore. They saw someone who had been pushed over the edge; who wasn't looking into the abyss, but had plunged headlong into it.

And in that instance they knew they were too late.

* * *

Sudden laughter broke the deathly silence that had fallen following Joe's broken words. It was as out of place as it was maniacal – and Frank felt his hackles rise.

"Now _that's_ the look I've been waiting to see!" Houghton's voice was triumphant, but the gun never wavered.

Frank took a half-step forwards: he needed to get his brother away from this madman. Then his dad's hand grasped hold of his bicep.

"Don't." The word was spoken on a breath – but the inflection said so much more. His father had taught him well and they had worked together enough to form something of an understanding. With his word and his touch, Fenton was telling him to be ready.

Frank accepted the silent message and took a deep breath. Time to be calm and yet remain tense and alert; time for him to draw on his martial arts training. He knew he had reached the right frame of mind when his dad released his arm and turned his full attention back to Houghton.

"Let him go."

"He's all yours, Hardy." There was a definite undercurrent of glee in Houghton's tone. It sounded as though he knew that he had won. "That is, if you still want him."

"I said let him go!"

Frank's eyes were glued to his brother, even as his father repeated the demand. Joe looked completely broken; was sagging in his captor's grip. And he knew they would get no help from Joe should they attempt to facilitate rushing Houghton to rescue him.

Frank frowned. There was something about Joe's demeanour that was infinitely disturbing. He had yet to look up at either of them and the defeat that surrounded him was like a stain in the air.

And Frank was forced to re-evaluate his belief that Joe would not be damaged beyond repair.

Thoughts and promises sped through Frank's brain: _"His baby brother was going to be alright and, at last, he had something positive to hold onto." "Focus on the living.__And ensure they keep on living." "I'll always be here for you, whether you're aware of it or not. I'll be there." "For the rest of my __**life**__, if that's what it takes." "Today, kiddo."_

And he reiterated each and every one of those thoughts – and promised them anew.

Then Houghton spoke again; his voice cruel and mocking: "You want this piece of filth? This pathetic excuse for a human being?" His voice got progressively louder and Fenton's attempted appeal of _"Joe…"_ was swiftly overridden: "You want this murderer? This scum who killed your wife?!"

"Don't listen to him, Joe!" Frank shouted, when it seemed that his dad was incapable of finding his voice. "It wasn't your fault! Don't…" He trailed off, knowing that he wasn't reaching Joe; the blonde head never even rose – and Frank knew that his brother didn't need to hear this from _him_. He turned to the one man who might be able to help: "Dad…"

"No!"

Fenton's sudden yell almost caused Frank's heart to stop. As it was, he was convinced that it literally skipped a beat. Then his dad was moving and he turned shocked eyes towards the hostage scenario.

But it wasn't Houghton who had taken action.

It was Joe.

* * *

Joe had closed his eyes. It was supposed to be over; he was supposed to be free.

He didn't know what it meant – the freedom that he craved. All he knew was that his nightmare showed no signs of ever ending.

He was aware of the police leaving; was even aware of his family – _the remainder of his family_, he bitterly reminded himself – arriving.

They just didn't matter.

Torture and torment and drugs had made him believe his own confession – and that was the only thing that _did_ matter to him.

He had to end this now.

And, somehow, maybe it was fitting that his dad and his brother were there. After all, they were great believers in the law; in justice; in the punishment fitting the crime. They were Private Investigators. They had to believe in those things.

And Joe believed in those things, too. It was all he had – and everything he had tried to live his life by.

As he was forced to listen to more vile words: _"This piece of filth? This pathetic excuse for a human being? This murderer? This scum who killed your wife?!" _he knew what he had to do. He could see no other way.

His decision made, Joe reached upwards with a surprisingly steady hand.

* * *

Fenton saw what Joe was going to do before it even happened – and that was how he was able to react so quickly. As devastated as he was by what Houghton was saying, his eyes never once left Joe. It wasn't that he didn't want to face his nemesis; wasn't that he couldn't bring himself to look him in the eye. He would have loved to stare Houghton down; to let him know he'd never win – even if he couldn't find any words. Defiance was a part of who he was.

But, as much as he wanted to face down his son's tormentor, he felt as though he owed so much more to Joe. He might not be able to find his voice – not even now, when so much rode on it. But he might be able to convey it by the sheer strength of his will – and he put every ounce of that strength into the gaze he bore into his son.

Houghton's words never once penetrated his concentration and his gasping of Joe's name was him reaching out – desperate to make Joe hear him and understand; desperate to pull him back from the brink – even as he feared that he was already way, way too late.

And because he never gave in to Houghton's goading, never once rose to the bait, he instantly recognised the very moment that Joe – so clearly already broken – shattered completely.

Joe had seemed sapped of strength; devoid of free-will; incapable of doing anything other than stand there, sagging in his captor's grip.

Then, though he barely moved, he somehow changed.

A deep, heartfelt sigh was torn from him and, to Fenton, it was the saddest sound in the world.

It was in that instant he knew – and he moved without conscious thought. He took two long strides and then he dove at them both – hitting them low and hitting them hard.

* * *

Time seemed to slow down, as Frank saw what his dad had seen – but he saw it just a moment too late.

He missed Joe's first movement; missed the raising of his head and the blank look being replaced by one of sudden purpose.

But he didn't miss Joe's hand rising – reaching for the hand that held the gun.

His eyes widened as he realised what was happening – and Kyle Kozlowski's story was thrust back into the front of his mind. It looked like they might be reliving the tragedy on a wholly personal level.

It was too late for Frank to stop him. Three meters of concrete floor separated them – and hadn't he once read somewhere that a bullet travelled at fifteen hundred meters per second?

He couldn't beat that speed. Not when the bullet would emerge less than a centimetre from Joe's skull.

In spite of his mental preparation; in spite of his internal resolve; in spite of every vow that he had made, he was going to fail.

But he wasn't about to stand by and watch his brother die – not as long as there was a breath remaining in his own body.

Frank moved more quickly than he ever had in his life before – running two steps and then diving high.

* * *

Fenton's plan was crude and simple – if it could even be called a plan. The only thought in his head, as he covered the short distance across the basement floor, was to get Joe away from Houghton.

He didn't even have much of an idea how he was going to do that. He just knew that he would have the backup he needed – he could trust Frank implicitly for that.

And he was right. As he barrelled into the captor and captive, he felt a sudden rush of air above him; heard a grunt of exertion.

Then, before he was actually conscious of his actions, Fenton had grabbed Joe around the waist; hauling at him unceremoniously and spinning him away from Houghton; throwing him to the floor and then covering the boy's body with his own.

When he dared to look up, he saw Frank pinning Houghton to the wall; using his bodyweight to try and keep Joe's kidnapper immobile. Both of his hands were clamped on Houghton's right wrist, holding his hand high above their heads, as he tried to keep the gun from being a threat.

Fenton was torn. His youngest son had been though a horrendous ordeal and was shuddering and trembling beneath him. He didn't think he was capable of getting up and leaving Joe unprotected.

And yet his other son was caught in a potentially deadly struggle with a man who had already proved to be dangerous.

Salvation came, even as the impossible dilemma crossed Fenton's mind.

"Freeze!" Ezra Collig appeared in the doorway, his gun drawn and ready. A split-second later and Con was there, too. And then the room began to fill up rapidly – and half a dozen guns were aimed at Houghton; still locked in a deadly battle with Frank.

But, because of Frank's close proximity, not one of the cops holding those guns dared to fire.

TBC


	30. Chapter 30

Thanks, as ever, for the reviews. Disclaimer as in chapter one.

BLAME

Frank didn't know what was happening behind him – and he was too busy to risk even a glance to find out what was going on.

He ached to know how Joe was. The need to see, with his own eyes, that he was okay was like a physical pain. But he didn't dare lose his concentration – not even for a split second.

His eyes were fixed firmly on the dark grey metal of the gun barrel; currently pointed harmlessly at the ceiling. But his every physical effort was straining to ensure that the threat didn't become any more immediate.

Houghton was strong – of that there was no doubt – and Frank, already with his shoulder pinning his target's chest, drove an elbow into his solar plexus. Houghton barely even flinched, even as the air whooshed out of his lungs. He certainly didn't loosen his grip on the gun.

And then there were urgent footsteps behind him and a voice called out – authoritative and no-nonsense: "Freeze!"

It was Collig's voice and Frank relaxed marginally at the sound. The Cavalry had arrived.

Then he was forced to realise his mistake. The mere presence of the police, the FBI, or whoever else might just have arrived didn't necessarily mean an end to the hostage situation.

Frank knew he was blocking any potential shot – and so the threat of the police was instantly negated. But he had already let his guard down; relaxed his grip.

A sudden, swift knee to his gut caused Frank to let go completely and – spent from the prior effort – he collapsed. Now, Houghton's gun was a real and genuine threat. And his dad and his brother were lying unprotected and exposed on the floor.

Frank had lost his bearings when he fell. He looked up, trying to see where Houghton was aiming; trying to pre-empt him; ready to throw himself into the path of the bullet that he knew was bound to come.

The last thing he expected to see was Houghton grinning back down at him; his arms raised in surrender and the gun swinging harmlessly – inverted on his middle finger.

He dared to spare a glance towards his dad and Joe – but he could only see the former. Fenton's body still formed a human shield around Joe. But then his dad did look back at him.

He nodded once: good job.

The 'Cavalry' moved in then. The police, the FBI, or maybe even SWAT. Frank didn't know – and he didn't really care too much. All he knew was that it was over – and he breathed a silent prayer of thanks for that.

Then all hell broke loose:

"Freeze!" "Don't move!" "Drop the gun!" "Drop it!"

The words ricocheted around the room, as more law enforcement officers piled in and everyone vied for supremacy; as there was no clear cut confirmation as to who actually had jurisdiction.

Frank didn't care about the politics. But he did care about Houghton – and his heart almost stopped as he watched the grin widen across the kidnappers face.

Houghton tossed the gun away. But he tossed it very deliberately towards where Joe and Fenton lay.

Frank didn't even pause. It didn't matter how many guns were suddenly in the room – the only gun that mattered was Houghton's and it had just come to rest dangerously close to Joe's right hand.

He spared a glance towards his dad – and their eyes locked for the briefest of moments. Then Fenton's arms tightened around his youngest son; offering protection, offering support.

But also offering restraint, should it be needed.

But Frank negated that need. In one smooth movement he snatched up the discarded pistol and rolled onto his back.

The gun held in a two-handed grip, he pointed it unwaveringly at Houghton's chest. His heart racing, Frank knew that it would be the easiest thing in the world for him to pull the trigger.

* * *

Frank never got the chance to exact his ultimate revenge. His head swam and he wondered how it would feel to pull the trigger; to kill the man who had not only tormented his family beyond belief but was also, ultimately, responsible for the death of their mother.

His hands began to shake. It would be so easy.

Then cops began to swarm around the now unarmed man and he tried shifting his position slightly. He needed to keep the gun at the ready. Houghton was too dangerous; he had cost them so much already.

Tears filled his eyes as more bodies blocked his field of vision. He couldn't take his eyes off the threat – and yet it was being obscured to him. He tried shifting again – still on his back and still holding onto the gun like a lifeline.

Then he felt someone's hands on his and his vision swam back into focus. Con Riley was kneeling in front of him, his palms wrapped around his too-tense hands – and Frank realised with a start, that the gun was now pointed unerringly at Con's unprotected chest.

In that instant he realised how tightly wound he was; realised that his finger was on a hair-trigger; realised that he had been on the verge of shooting an unarmed man.

The gun dropped to the floor with a clatter.

Con smiled at him in utter relief.

* * *

Fenton sat up slowly as Houghton was completely obscured from his view by a myriad of various Law Enforcement officers – but he never once released his grip on Joe. He gradually drew his son up with him, until the boy was cradled gently in his arms; both of them still collapsed on the cold basement floor.

As he looked down at Joe – saw the grey pallor of his face; the deep lines of pain and fatigue; the heavy dark rings that encircled his eyes – his heart caught in his chest and he was suddenly swept by an overwhelming sense of protectiveness.

How had he allowed this to happen? How had be been so unable to save his son in time? How much had he himself directly contributed to the broken state of his youngest son?

Without conscious thought, he tightened his hold; drawing him in ever closer and clutching him tightly to his chest as though he'd never let go. Tears filled his eyes and he made no attempt to stop them from falling.

"I'm sorry," he whispered – unable to fathom what his son had endured, but knowing that it had to be horrific. His heart still pounded as he remembered, with crystal clarity, Joe's unwavering hand reaching up to the trigger of the gun at his head.

They had arrived – literally – in the nick of time, as the clock finally wound down and time ran out. But they had also arrived just in time to witness Houghton's victory. His tears began to fall more steadily.

Then he felt a touch on his shoulder – not firm and assured; not even remotely supportive. But trembling and tentative. He looked up into his eldest son's face – his other boy, who loved his brother immensely and shared a closeness with Joe that Fenton could only envy; a closeness that had always been there – and always would be. A closeness that he had never witnessed in any siblings before – not even the closest twins – and knew that he never would again.

They were his sons and now one of them was hurt and the other was clearly terrified. A swell of absolute pride flooded through Fenton and, somehow, the plight of his boys calmed his own terror and gave him some much needed strength.

"He's going to be okay." He blinked away his tears as he spoke. For some reason, saying those words aloud gave him belief in them. His boys were back together again and – _together_ – they could beat anything. He found a smile; albeit a somewhat watery one and said again: "He's going to be okay."

"Dad…" Frank looked anything but convinced. He looked sick to his stomach and genuine terror still lurked in his expressive brown eyes. "Dad, he needs an ambulance."

Those words forced Fenton to look at Joe – to really look at him. He had to look beyond the horrific mental image that still stood starkly in his mind; the gut churning terror that, even as he dived in to rescue Joe, he would hear the gunshot; that he would be a fingertip – a hairsbreadth – away from saving him.

But now Fenton forced himself to see past the nightmare and even past the fatigue that so enshrouded Joe. The blue eyes were closed, but Joe wasn't unconscious. He wasn't even resting. Testimony to that were the tears that seeped down his cheeks – and the way that he didn't relax into his father's embrace, but merely lay there; his arms held stiffly at his sides and his hands clenched into fists.

His breathing was ragged – an audible battle against him descending into uncontrollable sobbing. More of a concern were the bruises on his face, the flecks of dried blood – and more blood and bruising on his bare feet.

But the greatest testament to Joe's fragile state was the fact that he didn't voice even a hint of a protest at the mention of the word 'ambulance'.

* * *

Fenton looked up, intending to shout out for assistance – to get medical help for his son as soon as was humanly possible. What he saw negated that need.

Collig was standing in the doorway and there were two EMTs at his side. The only thing that stopped him from smiling in relief was the way that Collig's hand was outstretched; physically preventing them from entering the room.

Frowning, Fenton followed the Chief's concerned gaze – and then he understood. Though he had seemingly surrendered, Houghton had suddenly decided that he wasn't going to go completely quietly. He was being pinned to the floor – thrashing and struggling – while an unidentifiable cop tried to secure handcuffs on him.

The next moment, the cop obviously succeeded and the villain was hauled unceremoniously to his feet. As that happened, the sea of bodies parted and Houghton was suddenly able to see the Hardys. His face split into a broad grin – and he stalled again; digging in and refusing to take a single step.

Cops and Agents surrounded him, but he didn't seem to care about his predicament.

"I beat you, Hardy!" Houghton, his feet firmly planted managed to wrench one arm free. "Your kid's already dead! You can put him in the ground right next to your wife!"

"Get him out of here!" Collig roared – stepping forwards and putting himself directly in Houghton's line of sight.

His words, his authority, his very presence had the desired effect and, with a concerted effort, the assembled cops got the criminal moving again. But they couldn't make him go quietly.

"Maybe not today, Hardy!" Houghton continued to yell even as he was dragged from the room. "But tomorrow? Maybe next week? Next month? You'll be burying your kid, Hardy! I beat you! I won!"

TBC


	31. Chapter 31

Disclaimer as in chapter one. I'm so sorry for how long it's taken me to update. It's been a bit of a rough week. Special thanks to everyone who has reviewed; each one brings a smile to my face.

BLAME

The room cleared fairly quickly, as Houghton's voice faded – still crying out words of triumph.

Frank deliberately faded him out; focussing his attention solely on Joe. It didn't matter what Houghton was saying – or what he was threatening. Frank had already vowed not to let any of it come to pass. And he hadn't forgotten that promise.

The felon's threats were empty and meaningless. Now that they had found Joe, the healing could begin. And, given the tender way his dad was holding his brother, he would have plenty of help in that department.

He could also hear his father's soothing voice: "It's okay, Joey. You're going to be just fine. You're alright, son. We're here now. It's over."

The words were a never-ending litany – their meaning unimportant; the tone they were delivered in infinitely more healing. Frank wondered if his dad had even heard Houghton's last bout of goading. He certainly didn't react to it – and Frank noticed the way he had cradled Joe's head; cupping it gently and turning it inwards towards his chest, as though he could somehow prevent his son from hearing the words, too.

Frank allowed himself a small smile at the tableau – but even that was tinged with sadness. Joe was unresponsive, to say the least. And his dad's words were hoarse and throaty and held more than a hint of desperation.

He wondered if it might be worthwhile having a go at reaching Joe himself – it certainly couldn't hurt to try. He got as far as laying one hand on his brother's arm, when a hand suddenly clasped his shoulder.

Startled, Frank looked up and saw Con Riley smiling sympathetically down at him. Then he noticed the EMTs – now hovering very close by. Frank didn't want to move; didn't want to give up his place – his rightful place – at Joe's side. But he had to accept that his brother needed medical attention. After all, he had been the one to insist on an ambulance.

Reluctantly, he got to his feet – wishing that he was the one who was holding Joe and so couldn't be usurped.

But his dad had that dubious honour and, judging from the expression on his face, he needed the contact more than even Frank did at that moment in time.

* * *

The examination of Joe was brief, but nobody objected to the EMTs wanting to transport their patient straight to the hospital. When they had prised his eyelids up, his uneven and sluggish pupil responses had been obvious even to those with only the most basic First-Aid training.

So Fenton followed Frank's lead and reluctantly stepped back as his youngest son was carefully loaded onto a stretcher. Then the two of them made to follow the EMTs; to go with Joe to the hospital and find out the full extent of what the boy had gone through.

They were pulled up short by the sight of Special Agents Mason and Carr waiting in the doorway.

Fenton instantly bristled – but he tried to avoid a confrontation; attempting to ignore the agents and brush past them, as though he didn't fully understand their reason for being there. It didn't work and, unsurprisingly, it was Carr's hand that snaked out to grab hold of his bicep.

"Stafford isn't here." The agent didn't waste a single word. Nor was he about to be brushed of by Fenton's response of: _"Not now"_. His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly.

"Your son…" Carr began – his tone unmistakably bullish.

"My son is on the way to hospital, with what looks like a serious head injury!" Fenton shot back. If Mason had been the one to speak, then Fenton's retort might not have been so antagonistic – but there was clearly still some bad blood festering between him and Carr.

"If you so much as _think_ about trying to hinder this investigation…"

Frank looked away, as Carr's words threatened to instigate a full blown argument. They didn't have time for this and he felt his own anger and frustration beginning to brew. After what Joe had been through, he needed his family with him. Arguing amongst themselves wasn't of help to anyone – not the agents who were so single-minded in their need to find Stafford, and certainly not Joe.

As his own feelings of bitter frustration slowly festered, Frank let his eyes wander around the basement room. A second later, he frowned – but it had nothing to do with the heated words that were still being exchanged behind him. It had to do with the wall at the back of the room:

The bricks didn't look right. There was a definite, if subtle, difference in the colour of the stone. The floor tiles didn't seem quite properly aligned, either. It was nothing obvious – but to his trained eye…

He stepped right in to the heart of the argument his dad was having with Agent Carr. "You might want to check over there," he suggested, jerking his head towards the inconsistent area of wall that he'd noticed.

Then, without even a backward glance, he brushed past them all and headed out of the basement – intending to reach the ambulance in time and be there for his brother, because he knew that somebody had to be.

* * *

Frank had run into the basement at breakneck speed. He'd followed his dad blindly and recklessly and he had no memory of that desperate flight. It still didn't matter – because their effort had got them there on time. Joe was still alive.

But now he was leaving in a wholly different frame of mind – and his senses were honed; sharpened by adrenaline. And he saw the other doorway in the basement – the one that he must have blindly run past.

Now his heightened vision registered something through that second doorway and he felt compelled to walk towards it; to investigate more closely. Something beyond the half-open doorway had caught his attention.

He approached slowly, cautiously. Somehow, he was feeling afraid – even though he knew that the house was clear; and that it was positively swimming with various law enforcement officers.

Then he reached the end of the corridor and carefully pushed at the second door. It swung open easily, allowing Frank a clear view inside.

And bile flooded his mouth; nausea churned in his stomach; and he spun rapidly away before he was physically sick.

It was a prison cell. And it was clearly where they had held Joe for the majority of his captivity – the room they had rescued him from must have served some other, secondary, purpose. Frank, even with his brief aborted glance, had been able to recognise blood stains on the floor.

Still fighting the urge to gag, Frank ran from the room and up the stairs. He was going to reach Joe before they took him to the hospital. He was going to ride in the ambulance with him. He was never going to leave his kid brother alone again – not as long as he was needed; and he even silently reiterated the vow: _'for the rest of my life, if that's what it takes'._

And, as with his flight into the house, he took in none of his surroundings on the way out.

* * *

Frank emerged from the house and onto the gravel driveway just as the ambulance was pulling away, its emergency lights starting to rotate even though there was no accompanying siren.

Shouting for it to stop – and waving his arms desperately – had the desired effect. Brake lights flared red and the vehicle's progress was stalled. Without waiting for an invite and without even offering an explanation, Frank yanked open the rear doors and jumped inside.

Then he was pulled up short by the sight of his father sitting opposite the stretcher on which Joe lay.

Fenton Hardy looked older than Frank could ever remember seeing him look. Weariness bowed his shoulders and accentuated the lines on his face – that might usually be considered distinguished, but now only served to make him look haggard. He wasn't a world-renowned Private Investigator any more. Now he was a concerned and frightened father.

Frank slumped down into the space next to him. He felt as weary and old as his dad looked.

"There was a cell…" He choked the words out; his tone low in deference to his injured brother. "A prison cell… They kept him there… Like he was…"

"Don't do it, Frank." Fenton interrupted, but still managed to keep is voice as low as Frank's. "Don't try and get inside that madman's head."

"He got inside Joe's." Frank's observation was delivered with morbid finality.

Fenton straightened his shoulders, coming to a decision – and it was a decision he had to firmly believe in, in order to convince Frank. And he would definitely need his eldest son's help and support in the days that were to come. "He was only in there temporarily," he said, with conviction. "You have to believe that, son. Joe's going to be alright. We can get him through this." He touched Frank's cheek, encouraging him to look up at him – and to tear his eyes away from his morose observation of his brother. "Frank, we got to him in time."

Frank wanted to believe him – he desperately did. But it was an impossible thing to ask of him. Everything he knew about Houghton – and what he was capable of – scared the hell out of him.

And now he had seen first hand exactly what the man was capable of. He had heard Joe begging to be killed; had watched him reach for Houghton's gun, with the clear intention of taking his own life.

He never thought his baby brother was capable of being so utterly defeated; so completely broken. It had shattered him to witness it – and he was afraid that he might start to doubt his ability to keep his heartfelt promise.

And that desperate, terrified thought creeping into the back of his mind made his dad's words sound trite and almost flippant. He bit back an angry, or sarcastic, retort – which would only prove to be counterproductive – and bowed his head; nodding slightly as he did so.

He could feel his father's eyes burning into him – and knew that his apparent acquiescence had been seen right through. But he still didn't look up. If that was what his dad wanted to believe, then that was up to him – but he just couldn't do it.

Joe was going to need all of their love and strength and support. He was going to face a long, hard road to recovery and…

Frank's train of thought did an abrupt about-face. Joe was going to need their strength and their _belief_. How could he truly help his brother if he didn't believe that the task wasn't an impossible one; that they hadn't been too late to save him?

Finally, Frank met his dad's eyes and he smiled. There was still fear lurking on his features: fear of the unknown; of how badly hurt his brother was; of the undeniably difficult future that lay ahead for all of them. But, beyond that fear, there was also unmistakable gratitude: "We got to him in time," he whispered.

As one, both father and son returned to their vigil over the youngest member of their family.

TBC


	32. Chapter 32

Disclaimer as in chapter one. Thanks, as ever for the reviews.

BLAME

When they arrived at the hospital – and Joe was rushed away from them – the ensuing wait turned out to be anticlimactically short. Frank was convinced that he and his dad would be left waiting and wondering for hours.

He was so certain that he would be pacing in frustration and glaring at the clock, that he even volunteered to be the one to phone home and bring Aunt Gertrude and Sam up to date with events.

It was Gertrude who answered the phone – and she answered it in a manner that suggested she was expecting it to be another reporter on the other end. That afforded Frank a small smile – and he even managed to inject some optimism into his voice when he spoke of Joe's condition.

He had to. He had to get them thinking positively – or as positively as they possibly could – because they would be a part of Joe's support structure and they all needed to be telling him the same thing: it was going to be hard, but he _was_ going to be okay.

When he hung up the phone, Frank glared at the clock for the first of what he was sure would be a thousand times. He frowned as he stared at the red digital figures, realising that he hadn't taken note of the time they'd arrived.

It couldn't have been very long – no more than half an hour at the most – but he wanted a definite timeframe. He wanted to count the minutes and seconds. The longer it took, the more concerned he would become.

And then a voice called out the name 'Hardy' and it barely even registered. There might have been a brief wondering as to the coincidence of another Hardy being in the Emergency Room at that exact moment, but then his arm was grabbed so tightly that he instinctively tried to shy away.

"Doctor?" His dad's voice was hoarse and frightened.

And Frank felt terror flood through him again. It was too soon; too soon for them to have assessed, evaluated and treated his brother. Something had to have gone wrong. Maybe there was an injury they weren't aware of; maybe he'd gone into shock; maybe he had found some way to finish what he'd clearly wanted to do back in the basement…

Though his father's grip was crippling his right arm, Frank leant into him. His own hands were clenched into tight fists – and he was so wound up that he feared he might be drawing blood on his palms.

He couldn't move, couldn't speak – and he couldn't tear his eyes away from the sympathetic looking lady doctor who, Frank suddenly realised with bitter irony, wielded the same power as Graham Houghton so recently had: the power to destroy their lives completely.

Then she smiled and said the words they had been longing to hear: "Joseph's going to be alright."

The death-grip on Frank's bicep loosened and he almost collapsed, being suddenly bereft of its support. It didn't matter. His relief was so profound that he could have collapsed to his knees and not cared.

His brother was going to be alright.

_Physically._

The doctor knew nothing of Joe's mental state; knew nothing of psychological torment or mental torture.

She didn't know what she was talking about – and that had been proved by her usage of his brother's full name, he realised retrospectively. 'Joseph' now sounded condemnatory to him – given his memory from the last time they were all in the hospital. It wasn't a name that either he or his dad would be using for a long time to come.

He forced his attention back to the doctor when she started speaking again:

"I understand the circumstances of Joseph being…"

"Joe!" Frank couldn't help himself, he had to intervene. "His name's Joe."

"Frank…" His dad tried to admonish him, but the doctor – they still hadn't learnt her name – held up one hand and smiled in empathy.

"I know how worried you must have been about Joe, so I thought I should talk to you while my colleagues begin his treatment." Her eyes were soft and kind. "He has a concussion – quite a bad one – but there's no evidence of a skull fracture or any swelling of his brain. He's dehydrated, a little undernourished and he has a number of cuts and bruises. He'll need an x-ray on his shoulder…"

"Alright?" Frank was feeling sick as the doctor reeled off the catalogue of abuse. "You call that alright?"

"I said that he would be alright. And he will." The doctor was unperturbed. She'd done her job for a long time and had received much worse reactions than the one she was facing now.

"Have you tested his blood?" Fenton asked, tightly – wondering just how much the doctor actually knew; and hoping it was everything she needed to.

"We ran a standard tox-screen, but the results aren't…"

"Who's with him now?" The thought hit Frank like a thunderbolt. Joe couldn't be left alone; he was already suicidal. He couldn't be left alone – not in a hospital; a place meant to heal, but which also housed far too many drugs and sharp instruments: immeasurable ways someone might harm themselves, should they be determined to do so. Anger, born of terror, added harshness to his voice. "Who's with him?" he demanded again.

And then a frown did fleet across the doctor's features: "An intern, a nurse, an orderly, two police officers. More people than should be in there."

Both Fenton and Frank ignored her tacit disapproval – and their shoulders sagged in visible relief. It was Fenton who asked the next inevitable question:

"Can we see him?"

But the doctor was shaking her head, before the words had even left his mouth: "Like I said, he's going to need x-rays." She smiled sympathetically – their urgency to see her patient easily transmitting itself to her. "And, at the moment, Joe has just been triaged. He'll need further tests…"

"Doctor…" Fenton began; then he frowned as he wondered if she had ever told them her name. If she had, then he couldn't remember it – and that bothered him more than it probably should. "I'm sorry, Doctor..?"

"I'm sorry." The doctor's apology proved that she had realised her lack of etiquette and instantly negated his concern. "Lorraine Kempton."

"Doctor Kempton, when will I be able to see my son?"

"I'm afraid there's a delay for x-ray." The doctor looked genuinely apologetic. "And I also have him booked in for…"

"Doctor, please?" Fenton was having a hard time caring about the technicalities and the implied cutbacks that were delaying Joe's treatment. He just wanted to see him.

"I'm sorry, but it will be some hours before we get Joe properly admitted and able to receive visitors."

As Doctor Kempton excused herself, Fenton huffed out a sigh. He didn't think he could wait for 'some hours'. He needed to see his son. He didn't even want to talk to him; just look in on him and see that he really was safe and being cared for.

His son – his boy – needed to be with people who loved him. That was the only way he was ever going to recover. And the road to recovery didn't belong to Joe alone. They all had to walk it – and it had to start with one small step; one small step for each of them.

That first step, to Fenton, was simply to look down on him; to cherish him and be grateful for his being returned to them. And maybe his presence – his love – might somehow reach Joe and allow him to take his own first step.

* * *

Frank heard the words 'some hours' and unknowingly followed his dad's train of thought almost identically.

Joe needed them. He was never going to recover alone.

Joe needed _him_.

He looked towards the closed Treatment Room doors and wondered at his chances of success, should he attempt to sneak in. Then he wondered if it would even be worth the effort. After all, Joe might have been moved already – whisked away to undergo the aforementioned x-rays and scans.

And then any possibility of sneaking anywhere was thwarted as a voice called out across the waiting room:

"Fenton! Frank!"

They turned simultaneously; both of them automatically opening their arms and capturing Gertrude in a warm embrace when she rushed towards them.

Frank closed his eyes for a brief moment and, when he opened them again, he found himself looking directly at Sam Radley. He found a smile for his dad's partner – remembering words of strength and encouragement. Gently disentangling himself from his father and aunt, he offered the other man a heartfelt handshake; which turned into a hearty – if somewhat self-conscious – hug of their own.

"How's he doing?" Sam asked.

"The doctor said he'll be okay." Frank couldn't keep the unease out of his voice. They all knew Houghton's history and 'okay' was a long way removed from where Joe was currently at.

Sam nodded his complete and utter understanding. "Hey, he's got one hell of a support structure going on. We're all going to be here for…"

"Sam, thanks for coming." His dad interrupted them, striding over and shaking his partner's hand. "And thank you for looking after my sister."

"It was nothing." The words might have sounded like a cliché, but in Sam's case they were utterly genuine.

Then Frank frowned as he saw his dad glance at his watch. They had only just been told that the wait would stretch into hours – there was no need to be worried about the time. Not yet, at least.

* * *

Fenton was torn. He knew that Joe was in the best of care, but that didn't make his decision any easier. Leaving the hospital now would feel like abandonment – whether his son was aware that he was gone or not.

And then there was Frank. Getting past his firstborn wasn't going to be an easy task, by any stretch of the imagination. But this was something he had to do. He glanced at his watch, trying to gauge how many hours 'some' might entail – and then realising that it didn't matter.

He'd be at Joe's bedside the second he was allowed to be. In the meantime – there were steps he could be taking to help guide them on their road to recovery.

Nervously, he cleared his throat.

"They'll be questioning Houghton now," he said, softly.

"I'll go." Sam's response was predictable – and it was appreciated. It was also rejected:

"No. I have to be there."

"Why, dad?" Frank's protest was outraged. "Why? So he can taunt you some more? So he can just goad you and hurt you some more? Dad!"

"Fenton, let me…" Even Sam tried to intervene.

"No! It has to be me." Fenton raised his voice and his words were set in granite. He would not be dissuaded from what he was about to do. "I have to know what he did; what he said. I have to know what he did to Joe…"

"Don't do this to yourself, my friend." It was Sam who put forward the argument – which was also poised on Frank's lips. "He won't tell you anything."

And Fenton drew himself up to his full height, squared his shoulders – and his resolve was like a steel ball in his gut; melting into liquid fire in his veins.

"Yes he will," he vowed.

TBC


	33. Chapter 33

Disclaimer as in chapter one. Thanks, as ever for the reviews.

BLAME

Sam drove and Fenton sat in stony silence alongside him. Gertrude and Frank remained at the hospital – determined to be available should there be any further news on Joe; and to be able to visit him the second they were allowed. It was clear from both of their demeanours that they didn't agree with Fenton's course of action.

"You know, I agree with them," Sam said, breaking into his thoughts – after seemingly having read his mind.

Fenton didn't answer; didn't even turn his head.

"And you know the old 'silent treatment' isn't going to work on me either, my friend." Sam prattled on, not even glancing away from the road to see if he was provoking a reaction. He knew that he would sooner or later. "Because you know me – about as well as I know you – and you know that you'll crack eventually; even if it is just to tell me to shut up. We've played this game…"

"Shut up, Sam."

And then Sam did glance to his right, a small smile playing on his lips. It wasn't returned by Fenton, but the other man was looking a little less rigid. But there was still unmistakable determination in his posture.

"Just tell me why, Fenton," Sam said, softly. "Why put yourself through this?" He shook his head. "Frank was right; Houghton will just use this to hurt you. You're playing right into his hands."

"I have to know." The answer came on a whisper.

"But _why?_" Sam pressed. His partner was normally so level-headed; stoic even where his family was concerned – or _especially_ where his family was concerned. This ill-advised confrontation was totally out of character and Sam wanted to head it off before it caused his dear friend any further pain: "Just explain it to me and I'll take you there without saying another word."

Silence fell – and then stretched out uncomfortably. Sam risked another glance at Fenton – who was sitting with his head bowed and his eyes closed. Sam was just about to make another attempt at reaching him, when the other man spoke:

"I blamed Joe." The words were strangled; the confession torn out from deep within him. "I blamed my son for killing his mother."

Sam brought the car to an abrupt stop as Fenton seemed to be on the verge of disintegrating completely; half-collapsing forwards and burying his face in his hands. Then all Sam could do was clasp his shoulder – silently offering his full, unconditional and totally non-condemnatory support.

* * *

Joe was forced back to consciousness by the unpleasant sensation of his eyelid being eased open. The sudden light was sharp and bright and pierced into his brain like a needle. And it forced him back into a place he had no memory of ever leaving. He gasped, feeling his heart begin to race as he instinctively flinched away from an expected assault of noise; of never-ending bitter and accusatory words.

But the voice, when it came, was calm and reassuring – the words gentle and soothing. It made no sense and so he waited, his body unbearably tense, for his torture to begin anew.

Nothing immediately happened, but still Joe could not dare to hope. He had dared in the past and it had only caused him further pain.

The whispered words continued – so soft and making him feel so at peace. But peace was the one thing he didn't have.

_The slam of impact; the screech of metal; the squeal of tyres; the blaring horn. And screaming. Drowning it all out. His mother screaming._

"No!" Joe screamed himself, as his nightmare returned with a vengeance – and then profound grief hit him and he tried to curl in on himself.

That provoked a reaction more like he'd been expecting. Restraining hands grasped his shoulders and he stiffened, expecting to feel the cold bite of handcuffs snapping around his wrists.

But that didn't happen and the voice continued to be all wrong. It was firmer now, but still didn't contain any anger; any of the rage he had so become used to.

When his eyelids had been released, his eyes had drifted shut – but now Joe opened them as wide as he could; in reality little more than a crack. But a face still filled his field of vision and he jerked instinctively away.

As had so often recently been the case, there was nowhere for him to go.

He blinked – frowning as his headache threatened to split his skull – and then blinked again.

The face hovering just above his was wrong. It wasn't Houghton or Carl. It was softer, rounder… More feminine?

Thoroughly confused, Joe let his eyes drift to the right. There he saw two men – two police officers, he slowly realised – and things gradually became clearer to him. More fragmented memories returned:

"_Confess and be free. Free to find absolution. Free to mete out justice exactly where it's deserved."_

Houghton had been true to his word. Houghton had released him and now he was under arrest. He was in the hospital for obvious reasons, but the presence of two cops spoke volumes to him.

His mother would get justice, just like his captor had promised.

Feeling strangely reassured, Joe gave up his fight against unconsciousness and let himself drift away – perversely reassured by the belief that he was in police custody and was thus only one step away from paying for his crime in full.

* * *

Gertrude had picked up an outdated copy of _'Hello!'_ magazine and was leafing through the pages, without even pausing to read any of the sensationalist articles.

Glancing down at it, Frank couldn't really blame her. The magazine was clearly a good number of months out of date, given the 'latest' celebrity gossip he was seeing.

After a few minutes, she discarded it and randomly selected a different publication. When Frank next looked, he saw glossy pictures of fabrics and furnishings. Disinterested, he looked away and allowed his eyes to wander around the waiting room. There was very little to capture his interest – and nothing to keep it. More than once, he found himself glancing at the clock; waiting for the digital figures to tick over – even though he knew that the wait was going to stretch into hours.

And then he allowed his mind to wander.

He thought about Joe – about what might be happening to him; what particular test or scan he was currently undergoing; who might be with him throughout it all. And then he sat bolt upright – panic spiking through him, even as he mentally castigated himself for his unforgivable oversight: _Who was with Joe?_

Somebody had to be with him – and at all times. He couldn't be left alone; not for a single second; not even if he appeared to be asleep. He had to be on suicide watch – as ugly as that thought might be. But Frank knew he hadn't mentioned that fact to the Doctor. He wondered if anybody else had.

He got abruptly to his feet and murmured: "I'll be right back," to his Aunt. She didn't look up; didn't even acknowledge him – but not because she was engrossed in any article. She was clearly deeply lost in her own thoughts.

Frank felt for her, but couldn't afford more than a moment of sympathy. She was safe and Joe might not be. Another thought had slammed into his brain – another oversight that inwardly mocked his intention to be a Private Investigator: _"An intern, a nurse, an orderly, two police officers."_

Why two police officers?

Frank's first panicked instinct was that they were Mason and Carr. He didn't want them near his brother any more than his father did. But if it were them, then surely the Doctor would have used the word 'agents'.

But if not them, then who?

Frank moved with sudden purpose – and also purposefully ignored the red and prohibitive signs that allowed access to 'authorised personnel only.'

* * *

Concerned that his sudden stop might have caused him to park in an inappropriate – if not downright dangerous – place, Sam spared a glance out of his window and then almost did a double-take when he saw that he'd somehow managed to pull up right next to a parking meter. It never even crossed his mind to slip out and feed it a dollar – not when his oldest friend was almost literally falling to pieces next to him.

Besides, his hand was still clamped firmly on Fenton's shoulder – and he would not have broken that contact had his life depended on it.

It devastated him to see the normally unflappable man in such a state – and he didn't know quite how to handle it.

Physical contact was all he had and it didn't matter that his hand was starting to cramp; that his shoulder was getting stiff because he was twisting somewhat awkwardly. He would stay where he was for as long as he was needed.

Some minutes later, Fenton heaved a sigh and rubbed at his eyes with his fingertips. When he looked at Sam, his eyes were completely dry.

"Thank you," he said, simply.

"So." Sam wasn't quite ready to let things go just yet. He had been shocked by his friend's confession – not having been privy to exactly what happened between Fenton and Joe directly after the accident. "What happened?" He bit his lip, wondering if he dared voice his next question – and then he took the plunge: "How could you possibly blame Joe?"

"I was so angry." Though Fenton answered Sam's question, it was as though he was talking to himself – seeking some explanation, some vindication for his actions. "It's just…" He pounded his fist into his thigh. "I couldn't even protect my family! I knew he was out there and…" The pounding became more intense. "I couldn't save her! Joe couldn't…"

"Joe couldn't do anything!" Sam broke in before too damaging words could be said. "Joe…"

"Joe was driving." Fenton shook his head – knowing how irrational his words were even as he spoke them – but being completely unable to help how he felt. "He was responsible."

"Do you really believe that?" Sam was appalled by what he was hearing – even if a small part of him did understand. Almost a quarter of a century in the detective business had proved that much flimsier rationales could fester to the point of obsession when a person was bound and determined to apportion blame.

"No!" Fenton responded with utter conviction – and it left no doubt in Sam's mind that the irrational and unfair sentiment towards his youngest son had only been a temporary one. "No, I don't. Not now," Fenton elaborated. "But… Sam, my wife was dead and I… I did it, Sam. I blamed Joe."

"And that's what you think Houghton used." Sam stated the obvious, needing to get his partner back on track; back in the right frame of mind. "That's how he broke Joe."

"Of course it is!" Fenton's retort was indignant and outraged.

"So why the hell do you feel the need to confront him about it?" Sam shot back, with equal passion.

"Because I can't afford to be wrong about this." It was suddenly as though Fenton's brief breakdown hadn't even happened, as his earlier resolve re-established itself. "I've been telling Frank not to try and get inside Houghton's head – and I'm not going to be guilty of doing exactly that."

"But you said yourself – it's obvious…"

But Fenton was shaking his head vehemently: "Maybe it is obvious, but I can't afford to go blundering in and saying all the wrong things to Joe." Almost as an afterthought, he quietly added: "I won't. Not again."

Sam nodded somewhat reluctantly and shifted the car back into 'drive'. He'd promised his friend that he would take him to the precinct without another word – if he could be convinced. And now he intended to keep that promise.

As if not realising that he ad already won this battle, Fenton still had one more thing to say:

"Twelve years ago, he was the one to make a mistake and it cost him. This time around, it isn't going to be me who pays the price."

TBC


	34. Chapter 34

**Short chapter – sorry! But I've been fighting a running battle with AOL (or A-Oh-Hell) for the last few days. So I'm posting what I can while I can! For the same reason, I can't stay online long enough to read or review the wonderful stories, that I've been enjoying so much. Please bear with me… I might need a new ISP; or possibly a new laptop…**

_**I'm reposting this chapter to correct the glaring error pointed out to me byKASEY64. Thanks for that – and a slap on the wrist for me!**_

Disclaimer as in chapter one. Thanks, as ever for the reviews.

BLAME

Sam actually preceded Fenton into the police precinct – but that didn't stop him from feeling as though he still looked like a sidekick, as they strode side by side towards the Duty Sergeant's desk. But that was merely due to the conviction – the sheer authority – that Fenton carried in with him.

He walked with the air of a man who had every right to be there – and who nobody was going to stop from doing what he needed to do.

Fortunately for them, the Sergeant recognised them and the door that led them out of the public areas of the precinct was buzzed open after a mere nod of acknowledgement.

It was almost as though they were expected – and that impression was only reinforced when Con Riley was waiting for them as they walked through the door that led them into the inner sanctums and towards the Interview Rooms.

"Mason and Carr are in with him now." Con explained, as he guided them. "They're trying to get the low-down on Stafford, but he's not talking."

And then he walked them into a viewing room – and through the one-way glass, they could see the three men Con had just been talking about.

Houghton looked implacable. Mason and Carr were both turned away in barely restrained anger – their frustration palpable, even in the next room.

Collig waited for them in that room. He spoke without even looking at them – as though the words would have been said even if they hadn't walked in at that precise moment:

"Our turn now."

Fenton caught hold of the Chief's arm – ensuring that he captured his full attention. "Let me talk to him," he implored.

Collig just stared at him appraisingly for a long moment. What he saw couldn't have been too damaging, because he didn't immediately refute the idea. "You'd be playing right into his hands," he said, eventually. "His every answer to their questions was that he'd only talk to you."

"Then let's see what he's got to say." Fenton had the bit firmly between his teeth and wasn't about to be dissuaded from his course of action.

Collig sighed and Fenton knew he'd won. But there was still one more warning to come: "Before we go in, there's something you need to know."

When the Chief and Con exchanged an uncomfortable glance, Fenton knew that he was about to hear something unpleasant.

"When we searched Houghton, he had some papers on him. Papers signed by Joe." Collig frowned as he spoke. "Fenton, it was his confession."

"Anything he might have signed, he signed under duress!" Fenton's response exploded out of him – angry and outraged at the same time. He couldn't believe that his old friend had thrown that at him.

"I know." The Chief's own tone was placating. "I just didn't want Houghton throwing it at you out of left field."

"Alright, so I'm aware of that." Fenton recognised the stalling tactic he was being faced with – but it only fuelled his impatience. "Anything else?"

When both Collig and Con attempted to glance surreptitiously towards the window, he followed those glances – and then he understood.

They were trying to spare him from yet another confrontation with Mason and Carr.

* * *

Frank snuck through the doors of the Emergency Room without being challenged. And once he was inside the triage area, nobody even looked at him as though he had absolutely no right to be there.

In fact, nobody spared him a second glance. Most people couldn't even afford him a first one. Everyone was moving with such urgency and Frank knew that he was sticking out like a sore thumb: he was the only one who didn't belong there.

All around him were curtained off areas – and behind one of those curtains, he might find his brother. Or he might not. Joe might already have been whisked away for the first of the multitude of procedures the Doctor had explained to them.

He couldn't go blindly tearing the curtains aside, as much as he wanted to. He could definitely hear sounds of muted grieving coming from at least one of the cubicles. Death wasn't something he was prepared to go barging in on – not when he had so recently been a grieving relative himself.

And he'd come too damned close to becoming one again.

Lost – and hating the feeling – Frank grabbed hold of an orderly; even as the man brushed past him with an irritated grunt.

"Where can I find Doctor Kempton?" he demanded.

"Go to the desk and have her paged," the anonymous man answered, with a complete lack of interest. Frank followed him with his eyes, even as he moved towards the triage station. It came as no surprise when the orderly bumped open a fire exit, reaching into his pocket for his cigarettes as he did.

The orderly wasn't interested in helping him; he just wanted a smoke break. So Frank caught the attention of the nearest nurse.

"Doctor Kempton?" he tried again.

"She's with a patient." The woman frowned disapprovingly, but her glance gave her away – and Frank was moving even before she added: "And you shouldn't be back here!"

Finally, fortune was on Frank's side and he saw Doctor Kempton emerge from behind a curtain – deeply engrossed in the file she held. He called out to her, intending to avoid startling her – but she looked up sharply; a gasp escaping her lips.

"Mr Hardy?" She was clearly shocked by his being there. "What..?"

"I need to talk to you." Frank caught hold of her arm; bringing her to a stop when she might otherwise have brushed right past him. "It's about my brother…"

"Mr Hardy, you really can't be back here." Doctor Kempton looked busy – distracted – and she flipped through the chart she held, even as she spoke. "Your brother is having x-rays now and he's receiving the best of care."

"You don't understand." Uninvited, Frank fell into step beside her. "Joe is… He needs…" It was so hard for him to say the words aloud – when even thinking them was incredibly painful. "He…"

"Mr Hardy, you need to go back to the waiting area." Unnoticed by Frank, the Doctor had reached her destination and stood looking at him with barely veiled impatience. "Joe is going to be fine."

"He needs to be considered a suicide risk." He blurted the words out quickly – like ripping off a band-aid.

It still hurt.

* * *

Even as Fenton watched, the two FBI agents exited the Interview Room and were instantly replaced by two armed cops – who took up flanking positions on either side of the room's only door. It was clear that the Bayport PD weren't taking any chances with the felon.

Then Collig nodded once and he, Con and Fenton all left the anteroom to begin the short walk to where Houghton was being held.

Mason and Carr were waiting in the corridor.

Fenton tried hard not to instantly get his back up. He was tired of arguing with these men; after all, weren't they supposed to be on the same side?

He nodded a greeting with what he hoped was formal cordiality, but otherwise fully intended to ignore them both. Unfortunately – and predictably – that was never going to happen.

"You're wasting your time," Carr snarled, as they passed each other – and he clearly didn't share Fenton's desire to bury the hatchet and remember that they were all, ultimately, on the side of law and justice: "He's not talking."

"If he talks to anyone, then it'll be me," Fenton murmured in response; hardly even breaking his stride.

"Hey, Hardy," Mason called out – and, though his tone was much less belligerent, it was still a long way removed from being friendly. "You might want to consider it as being in your own best interest to get him to tell you where Stafford's holed up."

Those words stopped Fenton in his tracks and he turned around, slowly: "What do you mean?" he demanded.

"We've got a file on Stafford about a foot thick," Mason elaborated. "The man's a professional. And he doesn't like loose ends."

"Ezra!" Fenton could hardly believe what he'd just heard. After everything they'd been through, after daring to believe it was finally over, he didn't know how to handle yet another nightmare being thrown at them. He didn't even know how to try.

Fortunately for him, he didn't have to try and face any of it alone:

"It's okay, Fenton. I sent two officers to the hospital with Joe, simply because we didn't know Stafford's whereabouts." Ezra's calm and assured voice cut through his broken thoughts. "Riley!" he barked – causing even Fenton to jump slightly at the sheer authority in his tone: "Get on the radio and tell Myers and Hawke not to leave Joe Hardy alone – not for any reason."

Fenton took a deep breath as he realised that the latest crisis had been averted just as quickly as it had arisen. He paused for a moment and then looked Adrian Mason straight in the eyes.

"Thank you," he said simply, but with utter conviction.

Ignoring Carr completely, Fenton turned back to the Police Chief. "So let's do this," he said.

And he strode towards the Interview Room. Flinging the door open, he stepped through it to face his demon.

TBC


	35. Chapter 35

Disclaimer as in chapter one. Thanks, as ever for the reviews.

I hope this proves to be worth the wait…

BLAME

Frank knew he had captured Doctor Kempton's full attention when she began walking slowly away from the cubicle she had previously paused besides.

She had clearly thought that she knew everything she needed to about Joe's case: a kidnap victim – malnourished and dehydrated – but needing nothing more than a few tests and then some very standard care.

Talks of suicide had forced her to change her mind very quickly.

"Mr Hardy…" she began.

"Frank. Please call me Frank." He shook his head bemusedly. "When you call me 'Mr Hardy' I keep looking around to see where my dad is."

"Alright, Frank." Kempton's response was spoken with the distraction of a person under immense pressure. But she was still prepared to spare him a few more seconds: "I worked in New York and Washington before I transferred here." She paused – and halted them in their tracks. "I have dealt with kidnap victims before."

"But the man who took my brother – he does this to people. He breaks them. He makes them want to kill themselves." Frank – belatedly realising that the doctor had expertly walked him back towards the waiting area – spoke the words in a rush; almost panicked. "I have to be with him."

"No, Frank. You don't." There was definite compassion in her voice – but there was also an absolute resolve. "Joe will be unconscious for some time. And there are those two cops…" she tried to remind him. "They've broken every hospital rule, so far. I won't have anyone else…"

"Let me talk to them!" Frank leapt on the reminder of his other reason for being there. "Let me…"

"No." Doctor Kempton's reply wasn't unsympathetic – but it was final. "You have to trust me when I say that Joe will be looked after. And, Frank?" She looked at him, appraisingly: "When was the last time you slept? Or ate for that matter?" Then she looked pointedly towards where Gertrude sat: "And isn't there someone else you should be looking out for?"

_No-one but my brother._ That thought was cemented into his brain.

Then, prompted by the Doctor, he found his gaze alighting on his Aunt. Gertrude had discarded her magazine and her eyes were flitting anxiously around the waiting room. She half-rose and then sat back down again.

Frank watched her do that three times before hurriedly excusing himself from Doctor Kempton and walking back over to her. He sat down next to her and put his arm around her shoulders.

"The Doctor will let us know just as soon as we can see him," he said – feeling that she was trembling and trying to reassure her. "In the meantime, how about a cup of coffee?"

* * *

"It's about time you got here!" Even with his hands cuffed in front of him, Houghton somehow managed to come across as being relaxed, at ease and – almost scarily – in complete control. The grin he aimed at Fenton was arrogant and mocking.

"You said that you'd only talk to me." Fenton spoke through gritted teeth; determined not to be drawn into the man's twisted games: "So talk."

"I'll talk to you." Houghton leant forwards and clasped his hands together. "I'll talk till I'm blue in the face. I'll talk till you beg me to shut up. Till you beg for me to stop!"

"Where is Carl Stafford?" Fenton tried to ignore the goading – and started with the most straightforward of questions; one that would calm his pounding heart and not give him cause to lose his temper, should it not be answered. He was emotional, but was also well schooled in interview techniques.

"Carl? I don't know. We had a deal and I let him escape. Maybe he's dead. I don't know. I don't care. Maybe he fell off a cliff." Houghton shrugged languidly and grinned again. "How about young Joseph? Is he dead yet?"

Fenton stiffened and almost choked at the mere mention of his son's name. He clenched his hands into fists and visibly fought the urge to leap over the table and attack the man who tormented him so.

And Houghton knew he had won the first point when Collig stepped in: "We ask the questions," the Chief intervened. "Not you."

Fenton shook his head then, recognising the mistake he'd just made. Barely a minute into the interview and already he was on the back foot. It was a rookie mistake – letting personal feelings get in the way – and he was no rookie.

It wasn't a mistake he was about to repeat.

"Joe's fine." Fenton steeled himself as he stepped back into the fray. He hid his blatant lie behind his utter conviction of belief. Joe _would _be alright. "In fact, he'll be home in just a couple of days."

"Then he'll be dead by the weekend!" Houghton was unphased – and laughed out loud at the defiance his own nemesis was trying so hard to demonstrate. "He killed his own mom! How do you expect to get your boy over that?"

"He did nothing wrong." Fenton slammed his palms down onto the table that separated him from Houghton. Then he leant in close – so that he and the felon were almost nose to nose. "_You_ killed Laura."

"And _you've_ still got to convince your boy it wasn't him!" Houghton's smug grin never wavered. "Let me know how you get on with that."

Fenton smiled grimly; determined not to rise to the bait.

Instead he turned defence into offence – and stared Houghton down.

"This will be the first time you've failed," he eventually said; straightening up and clasping his hands behind his back – and then he very deliberately turned his back.

There was the sound of a chair scraping on linoleum behind him – but Fenton didn't deign Houghton with the small victory of him turning around. He knew who else was in the room: two cops – both armed and alert; the Chief of Police – also armed and definitely not afraid to use his weapon, should he need to. And Fenton also knew that Con and Sam were watching from the very next room; plus the fact that Mason and Carr were bound not to be too far away.

There was no need for him to worry about Houghton doing something rash – and the Chief's firm words of: _"sit down!"_ silenced the sounds of movement behind him. He whirled back around to face Houghton:

"You failed," he said, again – trying to sound confident; even if, in his heart, he wasn't entirely sure he believed his own words. But he did deliberately echo the mocking tone Houghton had used: "You haven't beaten me. You could never beat me."

Houghton's gaze turned hard: "So that's why he confessed, is it?"

Though Fenton had been forewarned, it didn't stop the words from punching the air out of him. He gritted his teeth and ground out the same words he had said to Collig: "Anything he might have signed, he signed under duress."

And then, as if Fenton's nerves weren't grated enough, Houghton began to laugh. He laughed so hard that he began to cough; his breath coming in short gasps and his face turning beet red. But nobody moved to help him; nobody offered him even a sip of water.

When he finally regained his composure, Houghton wiped involuntary tears from his eyes and grinned up at Fenton. His cockiness had returned full force.

"You really don't have a clue, do you? _'Anything he might have signed…'_" he mocked. "Oh… You haven't seen it, have you? Your boy read those words aloud – and he cried. My God, how he cried. He looked guilty; he sounded guilty. Hardy, he _knew_ he was guilty!"

Fenton had heard the term 'blood boiling' but he had never truly experienced it. But now he did. He felt his blood pressure rising; felt himself grow hot under the collar – and every other cliché or euphemism there ever was for intense anger.

And he clamped down on it, ruthlessly.

"He's not guilty," he retorted, deliberately keeping his distance and glowering at Houghton from the back of the room. "I'll make him understand…"

"Too late!" Houghton seemed to be on the verge of cackling manically. There was clearly a madness about him – albeit a cruel and calculated madness. "He didn't have a clue – and I got to him first."

"What do mean?" Fenton knew that Houghton was immensely assured of his victory – and he was determined to shoot him down in flames. Those previous words had given him a glimmer of hope; so much so that he even held up a placating hand when Collig seemed on the verge of intervening.

"He had no clue – not a glimmer." Houghton was on a roll – relishing the reaction he was provoking. "You have no idea how easy it is to mould a mind that has no memory. It took _hours_, Hardy. Mere hours to convince your boy that he had killed his mom."

"He had no memory of the accident…" Fenton whispered – unwittingly being drawn back in time: to the memory of Con trying to take Joe's statement; to his own harsh words of 'observation, retention and recollection'.

Sickness welled within him and he tried hard not to dwell on just how much he had played into Houghton's hands.

Then another stray thought stirred within him – vying to push his guilt aside: "He remembered nothing?" he asked, ensuring that he sounded as though he was asking the question only of himself.

"Nothing!" Houghton was so caught up in his own perceived victory that he couldn't have stopped gloating, even if he wanted to. "Nothing except what I put in there. It was too easy, Hardy. Too easy!"

Fenton bit down on his anger, his fear and even his intense hatred of the man. Somehow, he forced a smile – and he injected every ounce of his contempt towards Houghton into that smile.

"What are you grinning at?" Houghton half rose out of his chair, but was instantly restrained by one of the cops who – unnoticed by Fenton – had moved away from the door to stand behind the prisoner. "What have you got to smile about?" Forced back down, he still managed to retain his arrogance.

But Fenton wasn't going to play his games any more. He had gained a victory and wasn't about to have it taken away from him.

Instead, he was going to make it all the more sweeter:

"Thank you," he said. And both his eyes and his tone were mocking. "Thank you for helping me save my son."

Then he turned and opened the door of the Interview Room. The moment he stepped through it, Houghton began to yell: "You've got nothing! Your kid is dead! You haven't beaten me! You..!"

And Fenton slammed the door shut behind him with finality – and with an immense amount of satisfaction.

TBC


	36. Chapter 36

Disclaimer as in chapter one. Thanks, as ever for the reviews.

Life would be so much simpler if I didn't have to work for a living… Apologies for the delay in getting this chapter up.

BLAME

As the door banged behind him, Fenton allowed free rein to the red mist that had threatened to descend the moment he had walked in on Houghton.

He was wound tighter than a spring: his fists were clenched, his shoulders were tight and he knew his nervous energy was way off the scale.

He made no attempt to rein that anger in – instead he relished it. In some way, it empowered him – and it gave him the strength to hold onto his belief; to the victory he had somehow just won.

In short, he was an explosion waiting to happen.

So, when a hand grasped his arm and he heard the gruff demand of: _'what did he say?'_, he reacted instantly – and instinctively. Whirling around, he released all of the pent up energy that he'd previously been forced to keep in check. His fist lashed out and connected solidly with something.

Pain shooting through his hand, and then up his arm, cleared the red mist as effectively as if he had been struck himself – and he stared down, with shocked eyes, at the man he had just hit.

Thomas Carr glowered back up at him:

"You're going down for this, Hardy," the Agent growled as he worked his jaw – then he spat onto the floor and Fenton was mildly pleased to see that his spittle was stained with blood.

It reassured him to know that he still possessed such strength – especially after everything that had so recently happened. It somehow only reinforced the passion that drove him – a passion he knew he still needed to hold onto.

"Stay away from my family." After facing down Houghton, threatening an FBI Agent meant nothing to Fenton. To him, Thomas Carr was just a bug on his shoe.

"Hardy…" Carr raised himself up onto one elbow and glowered at the PI. "You're gonna regret…"

"Maybe I am." Only slightly appeased by the release of some of his pent up emotions, Fenton interrupted the stereotypical cliché Carr was in the midst of spouting: "You can arrest me at the hospital." He took a moment to bore his gaze into Adrian Mason's eyes – almost daring the other Agent to cause his further trouble. "I'm going to be with my son."

He turned on his heel then and stalked away. Behind him, he thought he heard Carr cry out plaintively to his partner: '_Adey?' _

The response wasn't meant for him to hear – and Fenton respected that. Years with the NYPD had taught him the importance of partnership. And how, even if you were partnered with a real jerk, you backed him – or her – to the hilt.

When Mason muttered: '_you don't think you were ever asking for it?' _Fenton did them both the courtesy of pretending not to hear.

* * *

Sam elected to stay at the precinct. There were still questions to be answered about the investigation and Sam intended to hang around – looking over people's shoulders, bugging them and generally getting in the way; until they gave the information he sought just to get a little bit of peace and quiet or to make him go away.

So Chief Collig drove Fenton back to he hospital in his own car. As soon as they were underway, Fenton looked sidelong at his long-time friend:

"There really is no need for this," he said. "I could have driven…"

"Don't you think you're a little too angry to be behind the wheel?" Collig responded with a 'look' of his own.

Fenton sighed, suitably abashed: "I guess I've caused a whole lot of trouble for you." He was genuinely contrite; that had never been his intention.

"You assaulted an FBI Agent in my precinct." The Chief retorted – and his tone held a hint of mild irritation. "I don't care if the man was a complete jackass. It's going to take some smoothing over. Or some serious ass-kissing."

"I'm sorry about that." And Fenton truly was sorry for causing trouble for his friend. He found that he didn't care one iota about what he'd actually done – and that surprised him somewhat. He wasn't a violent man by nature.

Then he found himself thinking back over every interaction he'd had with Carr – from the moment they'd first met – and the man had done nothing but antagonise him; putting Joe's welfare right at the bottom of his list of priorities. Though he could understand the importance of catching wanted men and escaped felons, he'd worked with the FBI in the past – and so knew that such an attitude wasn't typical.

Even thinking about Carr was making his ire grow again and so Fenton deliberately pushed those thoughts away. He didn't want to risk losing his short hold on his temper again – not when his only target was one of his oldest friends.

"Is there anything I can do?" He asked instead; unable to keep the reluctance out of his voice. He feared that all he had to offer was an apology – and he couldn't genuinely believe that Carr deserved one.

Thankfully, Collig seemed to read him easily and shook his head. "It's in hand. Riley's pretty good with words," he smirked. "I told him to spin it so that the Agents can't make any complaint without ending up facing some serious questions regarding their own conduct. He can handle it."

"Thanks." Fenton felt humbled that his explosion of anger had been so efficiently and effectively cleaned up.

"I didn't like the guy, either." The Chief responded with typical nonchalance. Then he aimed another sidelong glance: "So, were you telling the truth back there? Did Houghton really give you what you need to help Joe?"

"I don't know," Fenton answered; knowing that, with just the two of them in the car, his indecision would remain confidential. "Maybe he gave me an idea… I won't know until I talk to Joe." He leant back against the headrest and then made one final admission: "I just had to take something out of the room with me."

Then he was completely taken aback when the Chief let out a chortle – there really was no other word for it. Fenton honestly couldn't remember ever hearing him make such a sound before. "What?" he had no choice but to ask.

"The second you closed the door, Houghton shut up. He seemed to… shrink in on himself – and he was meek as a kitten when we took him back to his cell." Collig diverted his attention from the road just long enough to shoot a smile at his friend: "So I guess you took out a whole lot more than you realised."

* * *

Fenton was actually feeling a little buoyed when he walked back through the doors of the hospital. Collig's words had done more than cheer him; more than accentuate his victory over his enemy.

They had made him believe that maybe, just maybe, it really was possible that everything would turn out alright.

He actually felt a smile tugging at the corners of his lips – though he did pause to wonder just how much punching out Thomas Carr had to do with that.

Then he noticed Frank and saw him get to his feet – and heard him overly loudly announce his arrival to Gertrude. A few heads turned, but then they quickly looked away. Everybody in the Waiting Room was involved in their own drama – and so they had no concern for his.

Fenton thought little of it; putting his son's actions down to pent-up nervous energy – something he could easily relate to. After all, Frank had been sitting around for what must have felt like forever; drinking cup after cup of bad hospital coffee; and with nothing to do but try not to watch the clock, and find some way to keep his Aunt occupied.

But then Frank's eyes grew wide – and a look of fear flashed across his features.

Fenton felt panic well within him. He'd only been gone for a couple of hours – what could possibly have happened?

He ran forwards, unashamedly ignoring the disapproving looks aimed in his direction. His panic – that shut down all rational thought – dictated his actions.

"Frank, what is it?" Fenton felt almost on the verge of hyperventilating and he gulped in a breath; grasping Frank's shoulders in an effort to ground himself. He forced out his next words, through a throat that felt too tight. "Is it Joe?"

* * *

'_Is it Joe?'_

Frank hadn't spared a second to wonder how his dad might react to being greeted by him in such a frantic state – but he couldn't help it.

He'd seen his dad walk through the hospital doors; and then he'd seen Chief Collig following him, as though he was his escort.

And there were two cops currently keeping a very close eye on his brother – and nobody had yet provided him with a reasonable explanation as to why. A thousand thoughts and fears crowded into his brain. But none of the explanations he could come up with, however wild, were at all reassuring as to what might be going on.

His dad was looking so scared – and his desperate question had revealed the reason for that; or at least part of the reason, Frank inwardly surmised. At least it was easy or him to take some of that fear away.

"No! No… It's not Joe." He stared up at his dad – and it didn't matter that they were almost exactly the same height; he knew he would always be looking up to him. He heard tears in his voice and hated them; but he was powerless to prevent them. "The police are with Joe and the Chief's with you… Dad? What's going on?" A new and unforeseen terror spiked through him, as he reached the only conclusion he could: "Did Houghton get away?"

"No, Frank." Fenton hurried to reassure his son. That was the nightmare none of them wanted to visit. "No. The Chief just…" He glanced towards Collig, offering an apology – and also another silent thanks for everything that had transpired. But Frank didn't need to know that his dad might yet face charges of assault – and not against their enemy, but against a Federal Agent. He didn't want to lie to his son, so he opted for an innocuous half-answer: "He gave me a ride, because Sam's still back at the station."

Frank couldn't know for sure that his dad wasn't telling him everything, but he was astute enough to suspect that there was more going on than met the eye.

It didn't matter. He still had his own questions that needed to be answered, so he had no choice but to insist. The thought of his injured and vulnerable brother needing a guard scared the hell out of him: "But dad, what about those two cops?"

"Carl Stafford wasn't apprehended." Fenton tried to make it sound unimportant, almost throwaway. "We have no reason to believe…" He trailed off as inflammatory words came back to him: '_The man's a professional. And he doesn't like loose ends.' _"It's just a precaution," he concluded, lamely.

He just prayed he was telling the truth; that Mason's words had been exaggerated, or a scare tactic – though that seemed more Carr's speed than his partner's.

But the last thing his family needed right now was another revenge-driven criminal gunning for them.

TBC


	37. Chapter 37

Disclaimer as in chapter one. Thanks, as ever for the reviews.

BLAME

Frank didn't respond to his dad's awkward-sounding explanation, but his mind was racing. Carl Stafford – how had he forgotten about him? He could hardly believe he had completely disregarded the obvious threat that remained out there.

But then, hadn't the FBI Agents described Stafford as a mere thug; only ever the hired help?

He desperately wanted to believe what he had been told, but it hadn't been overly convincing. Instead, it had been downright vague. But Frank really didn't need another worry to add to his already long list.

He would trust his dad – even if he didn't truly believe him.

With nothing else to do, he wandered back over to the chair he'd just vacated. And the time, once again, slowed down to a crawl.

Each red digital minute on the infernal wall clock seemed to take a lifetime to tick over and Frank's eyes constantly moved, seeking some way not to keep dwelling on it.

There was a television in the corner of the Waiting Room. The sound was muted, but at least it provided something of a distraction. It was tuned to the local news station and Frank's eyes narrowed as the picture changed.

A reporter – who Frank definitely recognised, even if he could not name her – was talking into a microphone. Behind her was the backdrop of Bayport Memorial Hospital. He was too far away to read the ribbon script at the bottom of the screen, but then another picture materialised in the corner of the screen. It was a picture of Joe.

News of the rescue had clearly broken; as it was bound to – and something loosened within Frank, as one small pressure was taken from him:

The whole of Bayport would now know that Joe had been found – and that would include his myriad of friends, whom he had not yet got around to contacting. He knew that they would understand him not calling them personally. His and Joe's closest friends all knew the depth of the relationship the brothers shared; how the other's welfare always came before his own.

None of them would expect a call and none of them would take offence at not being personally contacted.

And Frank knew that, when he checked his cellphone, it would be full of messages each expressing the same sentiment: _Great news about Joe. Let us know when we can see him._

The words might vary slightly, but they would all be similar enough for the semantics not to matter.

* * *

Fenton saw a slight smile cross Frank's lips and he followed his gaze to the television screen.

Then he smiled himself – but it was a sad smile and was brought about by completely different reasons to the ones running, unbeknownst to him, through his son's mind:

The picture of Joe on the screen was a good one; taken at the start of the school year. Joe looked fresh-faced and handsome; his smile capable of melting a million girls' hearts; and there was no hint of the sadness or danger that had so recently visited their lives.

Fenton sighed – and couldn't help but wonder if he would ever truly see that smile again.

He couldn't look at that picture for a moment more – and his eyes purposefully sought out the clock and then he stared at it relentlessly, waiting for it to tick over and bring him one more minute closer to seeing his son.

A moment later, he felt a touch on his elbow and, grateful for the distraction, he turned. Collig looked apologetically back at him.

"I need to go," the Chief said; genuinely sorry that he couldn't wait and see this through with his friend. By way of explanation, he jerked his head towards the TV screen: "They'll be wanting a statement."

"And you don't want the Feds stealing all of your thunder," Fenton half-joked, in response.

"My friend, with the amount of egos involved in this case, I don't think there's enough thunder to go around." Collig got to his feet and then reached down to shake Fenton's hand. "When you get to see Joe, tell him I said hi."

At those seemingly innocuous words, Fenton felt a sob rise in him and he almost choked trying to suppress it. They had been so inane, so normal: _'tell him I said hi'_. If only Joe's awakening would be so easy to handle.

He shied away from thinking about what he actually would say to Joe, when the time came. Though he knew his words would be vitally important, it wasn't a road he was willing to go down just yet. First, he wanted to know that his son was going to be physically fine – then the rest… The rest he would have to play by ear.

In an effort to distract himself from where his thoughts were threatening to lead him, Fenton watched Collig as he walked towards the doors of the hospital – immeasurably grateful to have such a man as his friend.

And so he was watching the doors when Con Riley and Sam Radley walked through them

Inadvertently, he touched Frank's arm and then that touch morphed into a solid grip on his son's elbow. He heard Frank's breath hitch in his throat; felt his own do the same – and that reaction was caused solely by the expression on Con and Sam's faces. They both looked thoroughly sickened.

Con paused for a moment to speak to Collig and so it was Sam who reached the family first. By the time he got to them, he had somehow managed to school his expression – but none of them were buying into his attempted nonchalance.

"What, Sam?" Fenton demanded – cutting out any preamble.

Sam's gaze flickered between the three of them repeatedly; and then it became apparent that his eyes were lingering longer and longer on Gertrude. It was obvious that he didn't want to say what he had to say in front of her.

Gertrude, herself, took the dilemma away from him.

"Samuel Radley, I am not some frail old woman." The steel in her voice gave credence to her words. "I have the right to know what happened to my nephew. I can assure you that I won't faint; and I won't cause a scene."

And Sam half-smiled at that.

He couldn't deny her; couldn't offer up any further excuses. He looked at Fenton – and his eyes asked the question: should he?

He got the most vaguely discernible nod in response and then forged on: "We got the first reports back from the crime scene guys," he said – blatantly ignoring Fenton's raised eyebrow at his use of the word 'we'. "The cell where… Or rather, the room that was made to look like a cell… I mean, the way the basement was adapted to be a cell…"

"Spit it out, Sam," Fenton ground out, through lips thinned with anger.

Sam bowed his head. He wasn't normally so unprofessional – especially not in front of his partner, but he hated what he had learnt. And hated, even more, the fact that he had to share it in front of Frank and Gertrude. He took a deep breath: "The room was set up for standard sleep deprivation methods. There were hidden speakers all over the cell and the lights were about a thousand watts."

"So they bombarded him with lights and noise." Fenton's voice was still as hard as granite. "I do understand how sleep deprivation works. What else?"

Sam looked as though he was struggling with every word of this conversation, but he couldn't deny his old friend the facts – and Fenton had given implicit permission for both Frank and Gertrude to be included in this: "The words… The noise he was subjected to… Apparently, it said words like: murderer, killer and… and matricide."

Fenton let out a long, slow breath – but deliberately didn't say anything. He was afraid that any word coming out of his mouth would be a profanity. In his mind's eye, he was reliving the interrogation of Houghton – but, instead of using mind games to get the better of his foe, he was envisaging tearing the man limb from limb.

Graham Houghton had torn his family apart – and his only punishment was destined to be a prison sentence; albeit one that would never allow him to see freedom again.

That didn't matter. It wasn't enough – and Fenton futilely wished for his time over.

He looked at Sam through haunted eyes: "What else?" he insisted.

At that question, Sam looked away even from Fenton – his best and oldest friend; his partner.

"They found some vials," he eventually admitted. "They don't know what was in them – they were all empty…" He risked a glance towards his partner, but saw only ice – unapproachable, impregnable ice. He forged on: "But it had to be some kind of… some kind of drug."

"What kind of drug?" It was Frank who asked the question – though it was asked in a voice that was almost unrecognisably shaky.

"They don't know," he offered; knowing that he wasn't exactly helping – especially not in the presence of Gertrude as well. He was used to dealing with Fenton and Frank – had shared bad news with them before. But Gertrude… He still wasn't convinced that she wouldn't yet faint. Or cause a scene. "They're hoping there's enough trace left for them to identify it."

"Dammit, Sam!" For once, Fenton was at a loss. His trusted partner, in his distraught mind, was letting him down. "What did they give to my son?"

And Con chose that exact moment to join them.

As four pairs of eyes turned to focus on him with the intensity of laser beams, he shifted nervously – wishing that he was anywhere else at that present moment in time.

But he was where he was and he was when he was – and when Sam offered him an apologetic half-smile, he accepted it with a nod and the slightest shrug.

"We don't have the resources to test them," he admitted, somewhat begrudgingly. "The vials are being sent to New York – but I can't see them putting it right at the top of their list of priorities." He looked away, feeling as though he had somehow let them all down – even though he was only the messenger. The phrase _'don't shoot the messenger' _flashed through his mind. He felt as though he had to offer something more: "Maybe the doctors here will get something from his blood tests."

He heard both Frank and Fenton gasp then and looked up, following their gaze. As if on cue, a lady doctor was striding purposefully towards them.

TBC


	38. Chapter 38

**I can only apologise deeply for the lengthy delay in updating. Life has been pretty tough of late. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed; your comments truly make my day. I also know that I'm behind in my own reviewing – I shall endeavour to catch up just as soon as I can. Thank you.**

BLAME

"Mr Hardy, Frank." Doctor Kempton had to pause then, as she took in the two other people in the small group. When no introductions were immediately forthcoming, she had to ask: "Are you all immediate family?"

"Yes," Fenton answered – offering no further explanation; making no attempt to elaborate on the lie – and his eyes dared the doctor to call him on it.

"Alright." Doctor Kempton shrugged it off. It wasn't her business anyway. "Joe has been moved into a room. He's exhausted and dehydrated and has quite a nasty concussion. Other than that, he has no broken bones; just some very heavy bruising. So he will be sore for a while…"

"Stop!" Fenton barked the word out, startling everyone around him; but his words were directed solely at the doctor – who was suddenly coming across as being almost overbearingly condescending. "Stop talking to me as though I'm a child. I am not a child." He zoned in on her with all his intensity. "I know what happened to Joe and I also know that he was drugged. Have you identified that drug yet?"

"We ran a standard blood test, but it didn't show up anything…"

"But not a full tox screen," Fenton bit out – acutely aware that procedure wouldn't demand one – but, given Joe's circumstances, should have been done anyway. He heaved in a deep breath, striving to keep his temper. "The man who had my son gave one of his victims Misoprostol. One of his pregnant victims." He didn't miss the look of shock that crept past the Doctor's carefully schooled features. She clearly knew of Misoprostol – and its uses. "So, please, do what we ask, help us save Joe's life and stop treating him as though he's just some kid who fell off his bike."

* * *

Frank had been shifting restlessly throughout the exchange – barely even listening to what was being said. He had heard the words that Joe was being moved into a room and everything else was just background noise.

Joe being formally admitted meant that his brother would soon be able to receive visitors. He even took a half-step towards the elevator, before realising that he was the only one who had moved.

And then he couldn't help but pick up on the increasing tension between his dad and the doctor. But the only thought in his head was that they didn't have time for this.

Though he agreed with what his father was saying, Frank was tired of the arguing; of fighting with seemingly everyone they came across; tired of words, of just being told things, when what he really needed was to _know_. He needed to see his brother for himself. He needed to see him alive and whole and back on the road to being okay again.

It was like a physical craving.

"Can we see him?" he blurted out – totally unable to help himself.

Doctor Kempton started to turn towards him and Frank caught a glimpse her expression as she did so. Her lips were tight and thin, her eyes hard. She was clearly angry at the way his father had spoken to her.

A second later, she was facing him and her smile was back in place – but now even Frank, in the height of his emotions, could see how false it was. Her next words cemented in place how right he was about how superficial she was:

"Visiting hours…" she began.

"Don't." Frank spoke before his father could – knowing that the words might be slightly less damaging coming from him. Slightly. "Don't even think about trying to keep us from seeing Joe."

"Look, Frank." Her tone towards him was decidedly more friendly than it been towards his dad: "To the family, every case is an emergency; they should always be the exception to the rules. When I work in D.C…"

"I don't care what happened in D.C." Frank interrupted, with uncharacteristic sharpness. "You're not working in a metropolis any more. We're a small town here – and we all look out for each other. Call Doctor Foy, if you don't want to take on the responsibility, but we _are_ going to see Joe."

Doctor Kempton looked down, biting her lip. It was clear to her that she had lost this battle – and it was equally clear to Frank that she hated that fact.

Frank didn't give a damn about her feelings. All that mattered was that she gave them a room number – and then they were mere minutes away from seeing Joe.

But Doctor Kempton still had the last parting shot: "Only two of you at any one time," she ordered. "And I will be instructing the nurses to enforce that."

But her words didn't provoke any reaction – because there was never going to be even a hint of a discussion as to who those two were going to be.

* * *

Fenton, Frank, Gertrude and Sam – at all of their insistence and against his protestations – piled into an elevator and then they all stood around feeling somewhat uncomfortable about what had just transpired.

Both Fenton and Frank were feeling more than a little perturbed – though they only communicated that with the occasional guilty glance towards one another.

The hospital staff had been good to them in the past: had waived visiting rights; had helped them with anonymity when a case required; had even lied on their behalf when it had been necessary to ensure their safety.

It made the father and son feel mildly guilty – and more than a little disconcerted – that they had flaunted all of that good faith, just because they had encountered a doctor who was clearly having a bad day.

Their eyes met again – and, this time, held for a moment longer.

"I'm not happy we're at loggerheads with the person responsible for taking care of Joe," Frank admitted, softly. It was a hard admission to make – it felt as though he was somehow siding with Doctor Kempton. But the concern he voiced was very real; and truly terrifying. Joe had enough to contend with, without adding a disgruntled doctor to the list.

Then his dad smiled at him, in unmistakable sympathy: "I know," he agreed. "But I'm hoping that she's a professional and that she takes her vows seriously. Other than that, I'll apologise to her in the morning."

"She should be apologising to you." Gertrude spoke up then – and her tone spoke volumes about her opinion of Doctor Kempton. "And she really needs to work on her bedside manner. How she ever got to be a doctor…"

Then the elevator jolted and a synthetic voice piped out the words 'fourth floor' – and the doors slid open; cutting Gertrude off mid-tirade.

* * *

Joe's room was situated only about a dozen yards from the elevator. Either that, or there was another patient in Bayport Memorial who required a police presence on his door.

Frank's heart rate increased as he approached the cops. He hadn't thought that Houghton might have needed hospital treatment – but what if he had? What if he had, cruelly, been ensconced on the same floor as Joe?

He speeded up; somehow without actually breaking into a run. When he reached the door, one of the cops nodded at him. Frank inwardly appreciated that he'd been recognised and suddenly felt reassured by their presence. It also somehow told him that this was the right room: their senses were tuned outwards – not at the room behind them; which would have been the case had it been a prisoner they were guarding.

He offered the cop who'd acknowledged him a small smile, even as his own recognition struck. He was Con's new partner – and Frank felt mildly guilty that he couldn't remember his name. He was thinking Enckleman, but he couldn't be sure.

Then his hand grasped the door handle and all thoughts of the cop fled from his mind. He turned to look back at his father.

Fenton Hardy looked grey with worry and fatigue. He looked about a thousand times removed from the man who had spent more than a decade with the LAPD; who had become a successful PI; who, in both of his careers, had put countless criminals away.

And, in that moment, he was none of those things. He was just a father – like so many countless others who had passed through that hospital – worried sick about his son.

Frank reached out and clutched his dad's hand, as acute sympathy welled within him – but, even as he did so, he couldn't help but glance towards Joe's hospital room door; which now stood ajar.

"I'm not going to leave him," he vowed – remembering past conversations and promises made; with himself, with his family, with Sam and even with God. "Never again." He took his first step into the room – but deliberately pitched his voice low; just in case there was some chance Joe might be able to hear him. "I won't." And, reaffirming a vow he had so recently made to himself, he added: "For the rest of my life, if that's what it takes."

* * *

They entered the room together – and then were both pulled up short by the sight of a nurse leaning over Joe's bed.

Frank would have darted forwards – concerned by this latest development – but his dad caught hold of his bicep, before he could do anything rash.

"Excuse me." Fenton approached slowly and cautiously – and Frank even wondered if his hand was creeping towards where he normally carried his gun. He felt his own heart rate increase; his own paranoia slide up another notch. What was this woman doing to his brother?

"Hey!" He couldn't help but cry out in protest.

The nurse whirled around – and they could both see the needle that she held in her hand.

"What are you doing" The question came simultaneously from father and son.

"Doctor Kempton asked for another blood sample," the young nurse answered – still clearly startled by them bursting in on her. "She said he needs more tests."

Fenton and Frank exchanged a look at that – apparently Doctor Kempton had taken their words on board.

His senses still honed – and still more than a little on edge – Frank glanced quickly around the room; looking for anything out of place; anything that might suggest something untoward was happening.

His gaze was drawn to the nightstand and his eyes narrowed when he saw a book lying there – propped open so as not to lose the place, but doing irreparable damage to the book's spine. It looked innocent enough; but he couldn't help but be curious as to what it was doing there.

The nurse saw what he was looking at and smiled, sheepishly: "Doctor Kempton said that he shouldn't be left alone, but that he'd be asleep for some hours. I was just trying to pass the time."

Mentally filing away the second thing the seemingly blasé doctor had done at their request, Frank looked at the book more closely and then smiled: _'A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court'. _It might not have been Joe's favourite book of all time – but it certainly alluded to one of his favourite movies.

Joe would have appreciated the irony; would probably even have used the book as a way of flirting with the pretty young nurse.

Frank's smile faded. At least, the old Joe would have. The present Joe – the one currently lying in that hospital bed… Frank couldn't even hazard a guess as to what this version of his brother might do.

The nurse returned to her duties and carefully withdrew the blood sample from Joe's arm. Then she smiled again and headed towards the door. Frank's voice stopped her from exiting:

"Please," he said – an irrational fear niggling at the back of his mind. "Take your book with you."

And, though he knew it was irrational, Frank couldn't help but make that request. In the movie that Joe loved so much, the part with the nurse reading from that very same book had precluded scenes of terrifying and violent nightmare images.

As soon as the nurse – and her book – had left the room, Frank took a deep breath and exchanged one last long look with his father.

Then, together, they walked towards Joe's hospital bed.

TBC


	39. Chapter 39

Thanks, always, for the reviews.

BLAME

Fenton stopped at the foot of Joe's bed and then simply stood there, looking down at him.

His son looked awful – in fact, 'awful' was something of an understatement. Joe's skin was pale – almost seeming translucent – and that only accentuated the deep, dark rings under his eyes: clear signs of his exhaustion, even as he slept. A dark bruise purpled his jaw line and there were still faint flecks of dried blood around his nose and mouth.

A hospital gown covered the injury to his shoulder; blankets hid the contusions that also adorned his feet. Joe looked awful – and he wasn't even seeing the full extent of his injuries.

Fenton took a deep breath and then found that he had to grab hold of the railing at the foot of the bed just to remain upright.

And he realised that he wasn't at all emotionally prepared for this. Houghton had done this to Joe – and he had done it because of him. If he hadn't put Houghton away all those years ago…

He shook his head, tightly – cutting off that train of thought. By arresting Houghton, he had undoubtedly saved countless lives. And he was still in a position to save his son. But he wasn't going to do that with any sort of a defeatist attitude.

Fenton steeled himself and raised his head – just in time to see Frank carefully brush the hair back from his brother's forehead.

"Hey, Joe," Frank said – with a deliberately light tone. "You're back with us. You're safe now and everything's going to be okay."

And then Fenton found some semblance of strength and he stepped around the bed to clasp his eldest son's shoulder, even as Frank said the words he wished he could say himself.

But he still had bridges to build; roads to repair. Trust to rebuild…

If only it was so simple – but there was no cliché to fix what he had done.

It would take strength, patience, fortitude, love – and about a thousand other things; each of which he was determined to give to the full. And it would also take the first step. Smiling slightly – and trying to inject some confidence into his voice, even if he didn't feel it in his heart – he brushed his fingers against Joe's.

"You're safe, son," he whispered.

Maybe it was a cruel coincidence; maybe it was something more sinister – a subliminal reaction to his dad's voice – but Joe chose that exact moment to demonstrate that his sleep was far from restful: A small whimper escaped his lips and his eyes began to move rapidly behind his closed lids – a clear indication that he was dreaming. And the dream was far from pleasant, given the way he began to move restlessly and how his breathing quickened into short, sharp gasps.

Then one word escaped – barely a whisper, but it might as well have been a scream: "Mom!" And, even in sleep, two tears escaped from his eyes and trickled down the sides of his face, before being soaked up by the pillow.

Frank reacted instantly and instinctively. Using one foot to snag the leg of a nearby chair, he dragged it closer to the bed. Then he sat down and grasped Joe's right hand in both of his own. And he began to talk: he said nothing specific, but just kept up an endless stream of relaxing, reassuring words.

They seemed to work – as Joe quieted somewhat and seemed to relax back into a deeper, more healing sleep.

* * *

Fenton felt a mild surge of envy as he watched his eldest son calm his youngest back to sleep so effortlessly. Following swiftly on its heels was an almost overpowering feeling of shame – almost of disgust – for feeling that way.

He should be proud of his sons – both of them – instead of wallowing in feelings of inadequacy and self-recrimination. He should be focussed solely on Joe's recovery – and everything else be damned.

Memories suddenly slammed into him – with the power to incapacitate or even cripple – and he almost fled. _He_ should be damned. He couldn't shed the memory of cruel words; of harsh treatment.

He couldn't envisage a time when he might ever be able to look his youngest son in the eye again – not given what he had done.

Fenton didn't consider it cowardly. He considered it as doing everything he could to help Joe – even if it might seem like abandonment. His very presence was hurting his son and there was only one way for him to alleviate causing further suffering – and that was something Joe most definitely needed to be spared from.

He took a half-step away from the bed. "Maybe we should let Gertrude and Sam come in and see him," he suggested – though there was a totally alien hesitance in his voice. "They've been waiting almost…"

"Only one at a time, dad." Frank spoke without deviating from the calm, soothing tone he had been assuring his brother with. But when he looked at Fenton, his eyes were hard and unflinching: "I'm not leaving."

"I'd never ask you to." The answer was spoken on a murmur, because it was clear that Frank wasn't even listening to him anymore. The words he'd spoken had been a mere distraction – and now his attention was focused solely back on his brother.

* * *

Fenton edged slowly out of the room. Guilt was gnawing a steadily growing hole in his heart – in his very soul – and he didn't know what was right or wrong any more.

Unsurprisingly, both Gertrude and Sam leapt to their feet at his exit. They had clearly expected him to remain with Joe for a considerable time more.

He offered them a smile – but it felt weak and sickly even to him. He received two equally pathetic attempts at a smile in return. There was a brief, awkward silence – and Fenton had to be the one to break it; he was the only one with anything to say:

"It's harder than I thought," he admitted – knowing that if he could share his fears with anybody, then it was his sister and his best friend. A line from a song appeared suddenly – and unbidden – in his head: _right now, all I feel I do is wrong_. But he couldn't admit that aloud. His head dropped and he fished for a convenient lie, as to why he had fled Joe's room after mere minutes of entering: "You should go in and say hi," he offered – knowing how lame it was, but having nothing else. "It might do him good to know that everyone's here for him."

"You go, Gertrude," Sam responded, gently. He knew, as well as anyone else, that Frank would have to be dragged kicking and screaming from his brother's side – and he also remembered the antagonistic doctor and her anal rules: _'Only two of you at any one time.'_ He didn't belong in that hospital room. "I'm not even family…"

Before Fenton could do anything about that statement, Gertrude stepped in: "Yes you are, Samuel Radley." She surprised both Fenton and Sam – and possibly even herself – by stretching up onto her tiptoes to kiss Sam on the cheek. "You are family. And you will go in to say hello to Joe."

Leaving the two men shocked and speechless, she quietly opened the door and slipped into Joe's room.

* * *

Sam took a moment to study his long-time friend. Fenton looked like he'd been to hell and back and was clearly hovering on the verge of complete meltdown. It wasn't too hard to figure out the reasons for that – doing something about it was another matter entirely.

But Sam had to try.

Striving to sound casual, he said: "When Gertrude comes out, I'll take her home; make sure she eats and sleeps. I might even try and do the same myself."

"After you've seen Joe." His partner spoke with surprising fervour.

Sam's eyes narrowed, as an unpleasant suspicion began to form at the back of his mind. It was as though Fenton was deliberately making it impossible for him to go back into Joe's room. With the doctor's rules, sending Gertrude and then himself in would be the perfect delaying tactic. He had to test his theory – and do something about it, should it prove correct.

"I'm not going in, Fenton," he said. "Not tonight."

It might have been Sam's imagination – but it also might have been panic that flashed in Fenton's eyes at those words.

"Gertrude was right, Sam," his partner said. "You are family. You always have been and you should go see him. Talk to him."

"He doesn't need me, old friend." His theory seemingly proved right, Sam dove headlong into the solution. "He needs his dad."

"I'm the last person he needs!" Fenton exploded – all of his helpless frustration adding intense passion to his outburst.

"Fenton…" Sam tried to intervene.

"No, Sam! You weren't in there." The bitter recent memory drove Fenton's emotions – and now he was spiralling towards desperation. "I barely said three words to him. Three words, Sam and I gave him a nightmare."

"You _gave_ him a nightmare?" Sam repeated, incredulously. But at least it was something he could work with: "Don't you think the nightmare was already there? Fenton, after what happened there were always going to be nightmares; and there will be for a long time to come."

"You don't know…"

"I'll tell you what I do know!" Sam angrily interrupted his partner. "I know that Joe needs you right now. He doesn't need me; he doesn't need Gertrude; he doesn't even really need Frank right now. Not as much as he needs you."

Fenton snorted bitter laughter and turned away.

"Think about it," Sam pressed on, undaunted. "Think about everything that's happened! Think about what Joe has been made to believe; how he must be feeling about himself right now." He realised that he'd balled his hands into fists – he was so desperate to get his message across. "And think about how Joe would feel if he woke up and you weren't there."

Before Fenton could verbalise a response, the door opened and Gertrude came out – after her surprisingly short visit. The reason for her hasty exit became apparent as she dabbed delicately at the corners of her eyes with a handkerchief.

"I'm sorry, but I hate to see the boys hurt," she sniffed. "I wanted to stay a while longer but…"

Her voice faded out to the two men as they exchanged a long glance. About a thousand words were exchanged in that glance, but only two were of any importance – and they were from Fenton to Sam: thank you.

Then Fenton took a deep breath and steeled himself harder than he'd ever had to before facing down the most hardened criminal. Going back into Joe's room, he pulled up another vacant chair.

Then he sat down opposite Frank and took Joe's left hand in both of his own.

Throughout the night, they took it in turns to talk to him. And to quiet his nightmares.

TBC


	40. Chapter 40

Thanks, as always, for the reviews.

BLAME

Nurses came and went throughout the course of the night – checking on Joe, given the seriousness of his concussion, but never actually waking him much beyond semi-consciousness.

He certainly never seemed to be fully aware of his surroundings – and he never gave any indication of either his father's or his brother's presence.

Morning came without Fenton or Frank even thinking of sleeping themselves. Their mouths were dry and their voices were hoarse, but there was no hint of a complaint. Joe had spent a mostly restful night – and, medical interruptions aside, had barely even stirred.

With the morning came the breakfast trolley and, though the accompanying smells weren't exactly appetising, they were both forcibly reminded of just how hungry they were.

"Do you want to go and get something to eat?" Fenton asked, solicitously.

"Maybe later. I'm not hungry right now," Frank responded – and then was left silently cursing as his stomach chose that exact moment to grumble; protesting at the lengthy lack of sustenance. Trying to hide his embarrassment, he added: "You go first."

"How about you both go?" A new voice spoke up from the back of the room – and they both spun around in their seats.

Doctor Henry Foy stood in the doorway, looking at them with mild exasperation: "I mean it," he said. "You might as well both go and eat."

"I'm not leaving." Frank spoke the words almost automatically – but that didn't mean they lacked conviction. Doctor Foy or Doctor Kempton – he wasn't about to be bossed around by either one of them.

"You are leaving – and for at least twenty minutes." Henry Foy had dealt with the Hardys before and was unphased by their bullheadedness. Heck, he'd survived an encounter with Joe when Frank had been the one grievously hurt – and, if he could get past that, he could get past anything. He had used emotion to coerce Joe into compliance on that memorable occasion; but now he was dealing with the more level-headed members of the family. He could be honest with these people – even if it wasn't a particularly pleasant subject matter: "I need to give Joe a thorough examination; run some more tests – and there are also certain routine procedures…" He trailed off, praying that they got the message before he had to spell it out to them.

Fenton did – and he pulled his son from the hospital room. "Let's at least let him keep his dignity," he muttered.

And then Frank caught on – and he was inwardly thankful that it was Henry Foy who had called in on his brother that morning.

Frank wondered at that. The door was still half open; the handle still grasped firmly in his hand. He poked his head back into the room, interrupting nothing more than Doctor Foy taking his brother's temperature. He was about to ask where Doctor Kempton was – but suddenly realised that he didn't care.

He closed the door firmly and then leant against it, folding his arms: "I'm still not going anywhere."

Fenton sighed and shook his head. He should've known that he wouldn't get Frank to physically go and get something to eat. Exasperation welled within him.

"_I'm so proud of them."_

The words were heard only in his head – but they shot down everything else he'd previously been feeling; for they weren't uttered with his own voice – not even in his head. Instead, they sounded like Laura.

Fenton closed his eyes against the sudden itchy stinging behind them. In spite of his best efforts, a single tear escaped.

For once, he didn't try to hide it and he looked at his firstborn through red rimmed eyes.

To his consternation, Frank looked away – and Fenton felt his heart catch in his throat as he realised the reason for it. Frank, too, was almost overcome with emotion.

Maybe, somehow, he too had heard the whisper of his mother's voice.

A sudden feeling of intense guilt swept over Fenton – he had barely spared a thought for his lost wife recently; he had been so caught up in Joe's kidnapping. But, just as swiftly, came an almost overbearing sense of deep atonement; more profound than he would ever have been able to afford himself.

He thought he heard Laura say: _"take care of my boys, Fenton. Take care of both of them."_

Fenton took a deep breath and straightened up. _God, Laura, I miss you so much._ Then he looked at Frank and tried on a smile: "Twenty minutes, the doctor said." His smile solidified and he felt conviction grow within him. "We're going to eat."

"Dad…" Frank had made a promise and intended to stick to it. Emotions aside, he was there for one reason and one reason only. That reason was Joe. "I'm not going."

Fenton smiled, grimly. He knew a look of absolute stubbornness when he saw one – even if he was more accustomed to seeing it on Joe.

"I'll bring you something," he offered.

Frank nodded gratefully and leant back against the wall – and then stood watching the door broodingly, counting down the minutes until he would be allowed back in.

* * *

Less than ten minutes had passed when Fenton returned, holding a paper bag – the base of which was already darkening as grease seeped through – and a cardboard tray housing two cups of coffee.

Sitting down in a nearby chair – still within convenient sight of Joe's room – he gestured for Frank to take the seat alongside him. His son did so, seeming only a little bit begrudging at abandoning his self-imposed guard duty. Then Fenton fished out two grease-soaked bacon sandwiches – not the healthiest breakfast, but the smell certainly was tantalising.

Without exchanging a single word, they both dug into their sandwiches, washing them down with satisfying gulps of strong and bitter coffee.

But their breakfast was cut abruptly short as, simultaneously, they caught sight of a familiar – but unwelcome – figure walking down the corridor towards them.

The sandwiches, and even the coffee, were abandoned as Fenton and Frank both got to their feet to meet the approaching Doctor Kempton. She was holding a file in her hands and it was clear that her finger was marking a specific place in that file. Occasionally, she glanced down at it – and she was clearly distracted as she walked; not even noticing the father and son until she was practically on top of them.

"Oh!" She exclaimed, clearly startled by their sudden presence. She looked at the file again. "I need to speak to Henry… I mean, Doctor Foy."

"If that's my son's file, then you need to speak to me." Fenton didn't try to hide his belligerence – his promised apology to the woman, made in haste the previous night, instantly forgotten. Like Frank, he had been relieved to see Henry Foy seemingly taking over Joe's care that morning.

Doctor Kempton took a deep breath and her eyes hardened. But the confrontation was short-lived, as the door to Joe's room opened and Doctor Foy stepped out; pausing momentarily to hold the door open for two nurses to enter. Then his eyes sought out Frank – and a brief shake of the head told the young man that he wasn't yet allowed to go back in.

Frank understood – and he was also curious as to what Doctor Kempton had to say. It was clear that she had some new information. Regret spiked through him, that they had such an antagonistic relationship with this doctor. He didn't think she would withhold information out of spite – but she wasn't about to actively seek them out to share it with them.

Then she went and proved him exactly right, as she opened the file for her fellow doctor to see. Fenton and Frank both looked down at the open page, but there were so many words – long and incomprehensible words – along with seemingly random numbers, that it was like trying to read a foreign language.

Henry Foy clearly understood what he was reading and, taking the tan folder from her, his expression turned grim. "Thank you," he said – and it was clearly a dismissal. Doctor Kempton paused for the briefest moment, her eyes flicking towards the father and son. Then she turned abruptly and walked away – her heels clicking on the tiles somehow transmitting her irritation towards the two of them.

"Sorry about her," Doctor Foy apologised. "She can be intense…"

"It doesn't matter." Fenton brushed the apology aside and nodded towards the file. "What is that?"

It was a bad sign that the doctor's response was a heavy sigh – and a sudden aversion to looking directly at them. But he was a man used to delivering unpleasant news and he took a moment to compose himself before having to fulfil that task yet again.

"Joe's tox screen came back positive for traces of Chlorpromazine and Scopolamine," he eventually answered. Then, knowing that those names would mean nothing to the men before him, he attempted to explain: "Chlorpromazine is an aliphatic Phenothiazine…" He trailed off, realising how unhelpful that explanation was. He tried again: "Basically, it's an antipsychotic; a dopamine blocker…" At the blank looks he was still receiving, he shook his head and then put it in the most lay terms he could come up with: "It's a drug commonly believed to be used in mind control."

"Commonly believed?" Fenton echoed – struggling to understand what he was hearing; which was not a feeling he liked. He strove to concentrate; to focus on the details, as he had done for his entire working life: "What about the other drug? The Scopolamine?" He felt an irrational surge of pride when the doctor nodded – not correcting him on the drug's name.

"It's a derivative of belladonna," Doctor Foy elaborated. "It would induce fear, paranoia and delusion. Coupled with the Chlorpromazine… Well, Joe would believe anything he was told to believe."

"Isn't that fatal?" Frank blurted out – speaking for the first time since the doctor had joined them. Maybe it was just his own paranoia, but his heart had begun to race when he heard the word 'belladonna'. _Deadly nightshade_. That was the other name for it – and he cursed his intellect for giving him that information. _Deadly_. He felt sick at the thought – at the cruel irony that they might have rescued Joe, only to lose him to some slowly administered poison.

Suddenly panicking, he darted towards Joe's room – but strong arms caught him and held him fast.

"Take it easy." His dad tightened his hold of him, even as Frank struggled to get free.

"I need to see Joe!" he yelled – but it was less in anger and more in desperate pleading.

"You need to calm down."

"No…" Frank felt his strength waning – but one word did stand out starkly in his mind: "The belladonna." He swallowed ruthlessly down on sudden nausea. "Will it kill him?"

"No it won't," Doctor Foy answered, emphatically. "I didn't mean to mislead you – but Scopolamine is just a derivative of belladonna. It's not fatal."

"But…" Frank couldn't collect his thoughts – could barely collate the information he was being given. And he hated feeling so out of his depth. He turned supplicating eyes towards his dad.

"Frank…"

Whatever Fenton had been about to say was lost as the door to Joe's room opened and one of the nurses came out. Seeing Doctor Foy, she hurried to him.

"Doctor," she said, gesturing towards the door she had just exited. "He's waking up."

TBC


	41. Chapter 41

Thanks, as always, for the reviews.

BLAME

Frank darted straight towards Joe's room – the only thought in his mind was getting to his brother with minimum delay; and he mentally dared anyone to try and stop him.

But he was stopped.

It wasn't the grab he'd been half-expecting, but just a light touch on his arm. It shouldn't have even made him pause, but he thought he also heard his name being said. It was so hoarse, so strangled that he couldn't be sure – so he turned to look at his dad.

There was something indefinable in his father's face: a kind of fear and desperation; but also a supplication. It made him look weak and indecisive.

Frank couldn't just walk away from that look.

"Dad?" he asked – trying to sound supportive and not impatient. He hadn't forgotten that they had all been through hell lately – or that they all still had their grieving to do – but Joe needed them now. Get Joe back and then they could all focus on facing the future together. He was under no illusions and knew they all had some serious healing to do. He just wanted to make sure three of them could do it together.

"I… Just give me a second," his father pleaded.

Frank nodded – but only because 'a second' was about all he was prepared to spare.

"I know we need to be with Joe…" Fenton continued, hesitantly. "And I can't… I won't let him wake up alone. But…" He looked at Frank; hiding nothing from him: "Son, I'm scared…"

For an instant, Frank could only stare at his father – stunned almost speechless by his confession. Anger threatened to emerge; anger at his dad's selfishness in thinking of his own feelings when Joe was going through so much; anger that they were wasting time when Joe might open his eyes at any moment – and open them to an impassive, if empathic, nurse instead of his family.

But the anger was fleeting and disappeared as quickly as it had arisen; as he identified the roiling in his own gut to be fear. His dad wasn't the only one who was scared.

They had good reason to be. This was like nothing they had ever experienced before. Of course they had held bedside vigils; but, whoever had been hurt, their awakening had only ever brought feelings of relief and happiness.

This time, their joy couldn't be unbridled. This time, they would be trying to gauge Joe's emotional state; trying to figure what psychological damage had been done and how lasting the effects might be; they would have to watch Joe to ensure that he wasn't going to attempt to take his own life.

They were venturing into unknown territory – and they had every right to be afraid.

Frank nodded faintly; acknowledging his dad's words. Then he turned his eyes towards Henry Foy. The doctor was standing by Joe's room, with one hand on the door handle. His eyes were downcast and it was clear he was trying to afford them some privacy. But it was also clear – just from their knowledge of the doctor – that the needs of his patient would always come first; and that door wasn't going to remain closed for very much longer.

Frank took a deep breath and looked his dad square in the eye: "We have to do this."

"I know."

Another pronounced look exchanged between them and then they both nodded. As if either reading their minds, or somehow sensing that they were ready, Henry Foy chose that exact moment to open the door and precede them into Joe's room.

* * *

Utter exhaustion – coupled with the numbing effects of pain medication – held Joe in a virtually dreamless slumber for more than fourteen hours.

But he couldn't sleep forever and, gradually, awareness began to seep into his previously numbed state. He became aware of sounds first – muffled and indefinable, but they brought back the memory of brutal noise and damning words. He shifted restlessly, as that noise replayed itself in his head.

Words like mother-killer and matricide reverberated around his skull and he whimpered softly, as he suddenly remembered a damning accusation and a devastating acceptance of blame. He remembered his confession.

The nightmares came along with the memory – but now he believed he was merely remembering what had happened before his captivity:

_The light turned green and he coasted through it; disappointed that he hadn't really got to play his 'stop-light game'. Then he saw the Buick in his peripheral vision. It sped towards them and he panicked. When the impact came, he didn't know what to do. His mind screamed at him to hit the brake – but, somehow, his foot found the gas. The car was spinning out of control and a telegraph pole loomed in front of them. He didn't want to die! He spun the wheel hard and the passenger side took the brunt of the impact. And his mother screamed just before she died._

"Joe!"

A voice invaded his nightmare and jerked him rudely back onto the path towards consciousness. But he still couldn't open his eyes.

With the noise came the light – and his head ached so fiercely…

Except it didn't.

The pain was numbed and dull – and another half-memory came back to him. Hadn't he awoken in a hospital bed?

He moved his arms; testing to see if he was cuffed. He brushed against soft material – not a stiff mattress or ratty blanket.

A sob escaped him and a voice spoke his name more softly – but he still couldn't open his eyes. It didn't matter where he was. The only truth that mattered was the fact that he had killed his mother.

Crippling guilt closed its fist around his heart.

It had the power to destroy him, even in his semi aware state. He didn't ever want to wake up and face the pain full on.

But the voices had other ideas and wouldn't leave him in peace:

"Joe."

"Wake up."

"That's it."

"Come back to us."

"Joe."

It was his dad and his brother – and there was no denying those voices. Even though they might hate him when they realised what he had done, they were what was left of his family.

He supposed he should have been thankful that he was being given the chance to say goodbye to them – even though, by rights, they should have hated him. Maybe, in their grief, they hadn't figured out what had happened yet.

Maybe he would be forced to confess to them, too.

Another brutal memory slammed into him: words about observation, retention and recollection.

He hitched in another breath. His dad knew what he had done.

And yet, hadn't one of those encouraging voices been his father's?

Confusion clouded his mind. But he wasn't going to get any clarification by feigning sleep – which wasn't fooling anybody, given the persistent voices that continued to speak above him.

He flickered his eyelids – scared of the light that might assail him, given his memory of Houghton's cell – but the light was muted and painless.

Hearing twin gasps as he did so, Joe opened his eyes.

* * *

Frank held the breath he'd sucked in when Joe's eyelids flickered and then finally opened. A faint hope had begun to play at the back of his mind – and he found himself clinging desperately to it: Joe had undergone unimaginable psychological trauma – and Frank inwardly acknowledged that he didn't even know the full extent of what it had entailed. But he had been subjected to mind-altering drugs, incessant sleep deprivation and God only knew what else – all designed to confuse and manipulate him.

So couldn't there be a chance that his brother wouldn't even remember what Houghton had tried to make him believe?

Frank mentally crossed his fingers. If that was the case, then they could ease Joe through the next few days and his recovery wouldn't be looking quite so uncertain.

But in the next second, that hope was cruelly dashed. Joe's eyes met his for only the briefest moment and then they drifted off to the right and stayed there – staring miserably at the wall.

"Joe…" He had to say something – but found that he simply didn't have the words.

The point swiftly became moot, as Doctor Foy leant in front of him with a penlight in his hand. The height of professionalism, he had hung back just long enough to allow the father and son coax his patient back towards consciousness. But, as soon as he was fully aware, he stepped back in to do his job.

"How are you feeling, Joe?" he asked, gently turning the boy's head towards him. "Any pain?" When Joe shook his head minutely, he carefully shone his light first into one eye and then the other. "Not even a headache? How about nausea?" Again, the responses were minimal, but Doctor Foy seemed unphased. "Follow my finger," he instructed, moving his index finger from side to side. "Excellent. Alright, Joe, you're going to be feeling tired for a while – but the only thing you need right now is rest." He gestured to the IV line snaking into the back of Joe's hand. "You were dehydrated and somewhat malnourished, so we're just replacing some of the fluids and nutrients you lost. It's just a precaution and should help you get back on your feet in no time."

Again, the only response he got was a hint of a nod – and, as Doctor Foy straightened up, Frank leant back in. Worry was beginning to seriously gnaw at him. This was the point where Joe would normally be demanding to be allowed to go home. Instead, he just lay there – pale and silent – and his gaze had drifted back over to the far wall.

Frank knew that he had to find some words – any words – to try and take away some of the utter agony and absolute devastation that was radiating off his brother in waves. But what could he possibly say, in light of everything that had happened?

He opted for the only thing he had; he opted for the truth: "Hey, kiddo," he said, finding a smile – because he was genuinely happy to see him, no matter what had transpired or what might still be to come. "It's good to have you back."

TBC


	42. Chapter 42

Thanks, as always, for the reviews.

BLAME

After doing his part in encouraging his son towards wakefulness, Fenton took a half-step back. It might have been deemed paranoid – but he didn't want his face to be the first one that Joe saw.

It wasn't because he felt bitter, or angry, or accusatory. He felt none of those things – at least, not towards Joe.

It was more because he knew that he couldn't school his features; couldn't keep the emotion out of his face. And he didn't want Joe to see something there and, in his potentially confused and irrational state, interpret it into something it wasn't.

The moment Joe opened his eyes, he knew such a fear had been unfounded. Joe couldn't even bring himself to look at them.

It broke Fenton's heart to see his normally ebullient son looking so subdued and lost. It almost completely devastated him when Doctor Foy stated that Joe only needed to rest in order to aid his recovery – and a sad smile of fond indulgence touched his lips as he recalled the countless other times his youngest son had awoken in a hospital bed. No matter what the ailment, the first words past his lips had always been: 'when can I go home?'

It had been an exasperating trait – especially when a ten-year-old Joe Hardy, with a broken arm and fractured ribs, had made that very demand – but it was one that Fenton desperately wished for now.

Instead, he could only watch as Joe listlessly succumbed to Doctor Foy's examination – and never once had a single word to say.

He couldn't remember a single other occasion when Joe had remained so completely silent.

Then Henry Foy stepped back – picking up Joe's chart from the end of the bed and making some notations on it. And Frank stepped up to the plate – saying trite, almost meaningless words. But Fenton still wished he had been capable of saying them.

Misinterpreting his expression, Henry Foy clapped him on the shoulder and smiled encouragingly: "He's going to be just fine."

Fenton frowned at him and somehow bit down on the outraged response that sprung to his lips. Joe, albeit awake and physically unharmed, was a long way removed from being 'just fine'. Luckily, he still had enough presence of mind to know that Doctor Foy hadn't intended to come across as being glib. Joe wasn't his patient, after all.

From the moment of his admission, Doctor Lorraine Kempton had been his son's primary carer – and so Doctor Foy wasn't to blame if all the relevant information hadn't been passed on.

Fenton bit down hard on the inside of his cheek to stop himself from cursing the woman out loud. He made a mental note to check her background, because every encounter they had with the woman – personally or not – left him feeling as though she had some kind of a vendetta against him.

As Doctor Foy exited the room, Fenton almost called out to him – so deep was his concern – but then Frank's voice floated across to him:

"It's going to be okay, Joe."

With those words, Fenton looked at his sons and strove to find his perspective again.

Now was not the time to worry about probably wholly imagined paranoia over a doctor who might seem distant and cold.

He looked at Joe and was forced to face his own cowardice. It was all very well deflecting blame towards an unfamiliar doctor – but didn't he have his own issues?

And they were issues that shouldn't be allowed to hinder Joe's recovery.

This wasn't a time to feel sorry for himself or to dwell on past accusations or injustices; of the wrongs he had done – either by word or deed. It was not the time to think about the events of the last forty-eight hours.

It was the time to think about the future.

Taking a deep breath, Fenton returned to Joe's bedside – automatically positioning himself on the opposite side to Frank. Then they did in wakefulness exactly what they had done in sleep: they sat at either side of Joe and spoke words of love and reassurance.

* * *

Joe stared at the wall. He felt the warm grasps of his dad's and his brother's hands – but he didn't really feel _them_. Instead he was lost in a terrifying myriad of flashbacks and memories and false memories.

The light. His mother. The noise. His mother. The crash. His mother. The cell. His mother. Houghton. His mother. The blame. The guilt. The confession…

Screaming out an unintelligible denial, Joe jerked his hands free from the loving ones that held him so gently. He didn't deserve compassion.

He wrapped his hands around his midriff and began to sob. There was no escaping the utter agony in his heart and, each time a gentle hand tried to comfort him, he jerked violently away.

He couldn't hold on to the unity of family any more. He had torn their family apart at the seams – had destroyed the very foundation of who they were. He had killed Laura Hardy.

"No!" he screamed. His confession hadn't been merely recorded on paper and a digital camera. It was seared into his very soul. And he couldn't face his father or his brother, given what he had done. "Leave me alone."

"Joe, we're not…"

The words could have come from either his dad or his brother. It didn't matter. Joe drowned out the rest of what might have been said: "Leave me alone!"

His head was threatening to explode. Inside his mind, the noise still hadn't left him alone entirely and each time he closed his eyes – each time he so much as blinked – he expected to be assailed by the thousand watt lights.

"Leave me alone," he begged again. But even as he made that supplication, he realised how terrified he was at being left truly alone.

His confusion was threatening to overwhelm him and his headache was in danger of returning full force.

On top of all that, his recent slumber had barely even dulled the edges of his exhaustion. Seeking an escape – even if it might invite more nightmares; they were certainly better than the horror of being awake – Joe closed his eyes and collapsed back towards sleep.

* * *

Fenton shook his head and closed his eyes, as Joe retreated from them – both physically and emotionally. It wasn't so much that his son had jerked away from him; he had been half expecting it and almost felt that he deserved it, given what he had done.

But to see Joe pull away from Frank…

Fenton couldn't recall another time when he had witnessed such a thing. No matter what, Frank had always been the one Joe turned to. And Frank had done nothing to deserve such a reaction.

That, more than anything else, drove home the extent of the damage Graham Houghton had done. And it scared him more than he wanted to admit – even to himself.

If Houghton had somehow driven a wedge between his sons, then – on some level – he _had_ won.

Fenton wasn't about to let that happen. Though he might have done wrong by Joe in the recent past – he was bound and determined to make this right. He could barely remember a time when his boys had even raised their voices in genuine anger towards one another. Of course there had been altercations and fallings-out: a dispute over a toy; a row over a television channel; even a heated debate over the best course of action in one of their amateur detective cases.

But Fenton couldn't remember a single instance that had resulted in serious issues between his sons – and, without even thinking too hard, he could recall about a million times when they had turned to each other for help, support or just simple encouragement.

He couldn't imagine Frank without Joe. Or Joe without Frank.

And so Fenton was determined to remove the wedge Houghton had somehow started to drive between the brothers before it came too firmly entrenched.

With this positive attitude firmly in place, Fenton looked towards his eldest son. What he saw made him waver in his newfound resolve.

If Joe's reaction had hurt him, then it had cut Frank more deeply about a thousandfold. His son looked beyond shocked. He looked beyond distraught.

Unable to reach out and comfort his brother – and clearly reeling from Joe's behaviour during his brief awakening – Frank looked totally lost. His hands hovered just beyond Joe; wanting to touch him, to comfort him, but clearly terrified of provoking such an extreme reaction again.

But Frank's expression told an even sadder story. In spite of everything he knew – in spite of all that had transpired – he had genuinely believed that he would reach Joe; just like he always had in the past.

A friendly smile; a calm voice; an ordinary greeting of 'hey, kiddo' and he would make everything okay again. It was his role as Big Brother – and it had never let him down before.

Fenton shook his head again. He should have anticipated this – and he should have prepared for it. But he'd been so consumed first by grief for Laura and then by worry over Joe; he had completely neglected Frank. He should have been more honest about what Houghton had done to his victims; should never have concealed what the man was capable of. And he definitely shouldn't have let Sam run flak for him.

It was another wrong he had committed – and the weight of his mistakes was beginning to cripple him. But, as Frank turned desperate and desolate eyes towards him, he pushed all of that to one side.

He sat up straighter. Now, at last, he had the chance to do some good.

"Frank, you knew something like this might happen," he said, keeping his voice deliberately low. Though Joe genuinely seemed to have gone back to sleep, it might have been a very convincing act – but he wasn't about to suggest that they take their conversation out into the corridor. He knew exactly how such a suggestion would go down with his eldest boy. "It was expected, so you mustn't think of it as a setback."

"I know I mustn't." Frank's voice was even softer than his father's had been – but, in the complete hush of the hospital room, it was still audible. "But I don't know what to say. I don't know what to do." His eyes were impossibly wide; huge with the weight of unshed tears – tears that he adamantly refused to let fall in front of his brother, asleep or not.

"There's only one thing you need to do." Fenton had a sudden epiphany and he smiled, easily recalling those million occasions he'd been thinking about so recently: "Do what you've always done – for your whole life. Frank, just be his brother."

TBC


	43. Chapter 43

**Thanks to everyone who has reviewed – I wish I had the chance to reply to you all individually but, sadly, there aren't enough hours in the day. Just know you are appreciated – and I figured you'd all much prefer an update anyway ;-)**

BLAME

_Joe looked down at the tray on the table in front of him. On it was a plate containing turkey, sweet potatoes, stuffing, yams, corn-on-the-cob, green beans and a bread roll – all smothered in rich gravy. Next to it, on a side-plate, was a slice of pumpkin pie._

_It was the perfect Thanksgiving dinner – exactly like his mom had used to make; and that was why he had asked for it. They had done a commendable job of providing everything exactly as he'd requested – right down to a glass of purple grape juice; the closest he had ever been allowed to come to having wine with his holiday meal._

_But, perfect or not, it wasn't Thanksgiving – the holiday wasn't even close – and his mother hadn't made the sumptuous fare before him. And so Joe pushed the tray away, without having even taken a single bite._

"_I'm done," he said, softly, looking at the man who stood over the bunk on which he sat._

"_Are you sure, Joseph?" the man asked, frowning in concern at the untouched meal. "You do have the right…"_

"_I'm sure, Father." Joe felt a twinge of guilt at the disapproving vibe the priest was seeming to give off at the waste of perfectly good food. In spite of everything, he felt the need to try and make it right: "Give it to someone who'll appreciate it," he murmured. _

_The priest nodded and then sat gingerly on the bunk next to him. He had a bible in his lap and one hand caressed the cover, as though seeking strength from it – and maybe he was. Joe wished he could find somewhere to draw some strength from. But he had nothing and no-one. He had burnt his bridges and been left alone._

_He briefly wondered about his dad and his brother – most especially his brother – but he pushed the thought abruptly away. He'd made his decision and they wouldn't be there tonight. Brief pain pierced his heart as he thought of Frank – but it was a pain he had long since learnt to live with. _

_And soon that pain – along with all the others he'd been feeling so deeply that he couldn't feel anything else any more – would be gone. _

"_I'm ready," he said; looking the priest firmly in the eye._

"_Is there anything you wish to say?" The priest got to his feet – and it was a silent signal for the guards to enter his cell. "If you confess your crime before God, if you repent, if you ask for atonement – then He will surely forgive you. _

"_I already confessed." Joe looked up – and he wasn't at all surprised to see that his guards were Houghton and Carl. It was only fitting. _

_Joe got to his feet and walked out of his cell – the shackles at his wrists and ankles not hindering him in any way. The priest walked alongside him and began to incant the Lord's Prayer: "Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name…"_

_Joe let the words fade out, as they entered another room. In this one there was a gurney and Joe lay down on it without even being directed. He didn't struggle as straps were tightened to hold him in place. He didn't flinch when two cannulae were inserted, one in each arm._

_He closed his eyes and waited for his death – by means of lethal injection. He breathed out what he genuinely believed what was to be his last breath. _

And then Joe sucked in a breath and opened his eyes. For a brief moment, he remained lost in his dream world and he wondered why – and how – he had woken up. A lethal injection couldn't fail.

Then he took in the hospital room – and the images of his nightmare began to fade and distort. Reality seeped back in and the softest of sighs escaped his lips.

He stared at the ceiling; not wanting to know – not even caring – who might be in there with him.

His nightmare had given him something. He knew what he had to do.

* * *

_Just be his brother._ Frank reflected on his dad's words and tried to figure out what to do with them. It all sounded so straightforward and simple, but it was neither of those things.

How could he 'just be his brother' to someone so deeply immersed in pain? So lost in self-recrimination, self-loathing and guilt? So distant to him that he didn't even want to be touched; was shying away from even the simplest gesture of affection?

How was he supposed to deal with that?

He opened his mouth to ask his dad that very question, but a soft knock at the door stalled his words. Sam poked his head in – and Fenton excused himself.

Frank barely even acknowledged either of them.

_Just be his brother._

Frank took a deep breath and mentally steeled himself for the task that lay ahead. He might not know what to say – what to do – to get through to Joe, but he did know one thing: His dad had been right and being a brother was what he did best..

Though he was hurting deeply from Joe's reaction, Frank vowed not to let it defeat him. His brother could be the most stubborn person on the planet – but that was something of a family trait. He didn't often have cause to, but Frank could do 'stubborn' along with the best of them – and he directed all of that stubbornness towards helping Joe and bringing him out the other side of this.

And the harder Joe tried to push him away, the firmer he would stand. The term 'an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object' sprang to mind. He wondered which of those two forces was him and which was Joe – but then decided it didn't matter; the two were interchangeable.

He would be either or he would be both. Whatever it took.

Frank took a deep breath, satisfied that he had reconciled himself to the task that lay ahead; satisfied that he could do whatever he had to do.

He rubbed his eyes – suddenly crushingly aware that it had been more than twenty-four hours since he'd last slept; but he wasn't going to let that be an obstacle to him, either. He could survive on coffee – or maybe one of those caffeine-loaded fizzy drinks that had the ability to have his often hyperactive brother almost bouncing off the walls.

How Frank longed to have that Joe back again – even if he could be incredibly exasperating when on an energy drink high.

And then his train of thought was abruptly derailed, as a soft sigh drifted past his brother's lips.

Standing up, he saw Joe's eyes open; saw them focus on the ceiling.

"Joe…" he began, fixing a smile on his face.

He never expected to be interrupted – and most especially not by Joe himself. But that's exactly what happened:

"Tell them I'm ready," Joe said, his eyes flitting towards Frank's and then – just as quickly – returning to stare blankly at the ceiling.

* * *

When Sam poked his head into the hospital room, Fenton had stepped outside to speak to him simply because he didn't want to break the rules and give Doctor Kempton any excuse to make life any more difficult for them than it already was.

Besides, with Joe sleeping again and Frank looking lost in thought, he figured that it couldn't hurt to leave just for a few minutes. And out in the corridor, he could speak without the fear of being overheard – even subconsciously – by Joe.

As he closed the door behind him, Fenton glanced towards the chairs lined up against one wall of the corridor, but they all stood vacant.

"Is Gertrude not with you?" he asked, mildly surprised by the observation but not really knowing why.

"She stayed home. Said it wouldn't do for too many people to be fussing around Joe." Sam gave a half-shrug. "I think she might have also said something about the house needing to be aired."

Even Fenton spared a smile at that. "So, what are you doing here so early?" he asked.

At the chagrined look he received in return, he figured that Gertrude's fussing might have had something to do with it.

"I came to see how you all were doing," Sam answered, with another slight shrug of his shoulders. "To see if you needed anything."

"I could use a week's worth of sleep." Fenton added truth to his words by using one hand to smother a yawn. "But it's nothing about a million cups of coffee won't fix. Anything else?" he asked, somewhat cagily – wondering if he was yet to face serious consequences following his assault of Thomas Carr.

Years of working together had formed a bond between the two of them – and Sam easily understood what was being asked of him. But, before he could answer, the conversation was interrupted by a nurse hurrying down the corridor. It was clear that she only had only one destination in mind – and that destination was Joe's room.

Fenton grabbed hold of her arm, as soon as she was close enough: "What's going on?" He demanded, panic accelerating his heartbeat and adding an uncharacteristic – and totally unfair – brusqueness to his voice.

"I don't know," the nurse answered, a little distractedly. But she'd worked at the hospital for over a dozen years and so instantly recognised Fenton Hardy. A little bit awed – and maybe even somewhat star struck – she instantly understood the reason for his tone. She forgave him without a thought and then explained the reason for her haste: "Somebody just pressed the 'call' button."

Fenton let her go then, but both he and Sam – and the rules be damned – hurriedly followed her into the room.

* * *

When the three of them burst into the room, Frank didn't so much as raise his head to see who the intruders might be. He stood over Joe's bed, his hand gripping his brother's forearm.

"What do you mean, Joe?" he asked. "What do you mean 'you're ready'?"

Fenton and Sam exchanged a glance – and neither of them even acknowledged the nurse when she stated that she was fetching a doctor. Instead, they both stepped closer to the bed, as Joe spoke in a soft, sad voice:

"You can tell the police I'm ready for them."

"The police?" Frank repeated, incredulously. "Joe, you don't have to do this now."

"Yes, I do." Joe's eyes remained resolutely affixed to the ceiling, but there was an undercurrent of pain in his voice. And, beyond that, he sounded almost scared.

Fenton stepped forwards, fully intending to add his own reassurances – but a sudden, unpleasant thought stilled his tongue. Houghton was an escapee who'd re-offended – and the DA would surely be looking for another kidnapping and assault charge to add to his already long list of offences; and ensure his renewed prison sentence would last for the majority of the remainder of his life – if not all of it.

The only way they would be spared from further trauma, and the need for Joe to testify at any trial, was a guilty plea.

But Houghton was a sadist and his sole aim in life was to make his family suffer. So what hope was there of that?

TBC


	44. Chapter 44

**Thanks for the wonderful reviews. I'm glad you're still enjoying this!**

BLAME

"What exactly is going on in here?"

Fenton stiffened when he heard Doctor Kempton's voice in the doorway. Now was really not the time and he squared his shoulders – fully intending to confront the abrasive doctor once and for all.

Then Sam's voice put paid to what might have been considered to be a very foolish plan:

"Excuse me, ma'am, but I'm with the FBI," he said, smoothly – lifting his jacket like he'd seen countless cops do on TV. He wasn't wearing a badge on his belt, but he was licensed to carry a gun – and a mere glimpse of it usually had the desired effect. "And visiting hours don't apply."

"Yesterday afternoon, didn't you introduce yourself as family?" she snapped, without even looking at him.

"So he can't have an uncle who's an FBI agent?" Sam challenged, warming to his suddenly improvised role.

"Well, I need to check on the welfare of my patient," Doctor Kempton answered, finally looking at Sam and sounding somewhat flustered – but there was a definite lessening to the hostility in her voice. "And the hospital does have rules regarding the number of visitors…"

"I'm not a visitor," Sam snapped – now playing his utterly imaginary part to the full. He placed his hands on his hips, ensuring that his gun was in full view.

The doctor nodded and returned her full attention to Joe. Occasionally, she spared a sidelong glance towards Sam – and he was clearly making her nervous. That was just something else that Fenton mentally filed away when it came to his dealings with Lorraine Kempton. The need to check up on her flashed through his mind again.

Then her voice penetrated his thoughts: "Joseph is fine," she declared – ignoring the dirty look Frank aimed at her at the use of his brother's full name. "He is still concussed, but that can be managed by rest and Tylenol. There's no reason why he can't be discharged."

"There's every reason!" Fenton tried to argue – abruptly leaving Sam's side and crossing the short distance that lay between him and the much hated doctor. "You have done nothing but…"

And he was silenced; not by Lorraine Kempton – but by Joe:

"Let me go, dad."

But Fenton, in his highly charged and emotional state, didn't hear the words: 'let me go, dad'. Instead – and he would have sworn it under oath – he heard his son say: 'let me go home, dad.'

So Fenton decided that he could deal with the abrasive doctor at a later date, when there wasn't so much riding on it. For now, it all had to be about Joe.

Then his shoulders sagged, as he suddenly realised that he honestly didn't know what to do. He didn't want to take Joe back to the family home; back to the constant and incessant reminders of his mom. That would border on cruelty – given Joe's fragile mental state.

But nor could he check them into a hotel – not even the finest suite Bayport had to offer. That would be just too obvious a reminder of _why _they weren't going home.

The only feasible, neutral venue they had was the hospital – and Joe had said that he didn't want to stay there; regardless of whether or not Doctor Kempton could be convinced to let him.

They were trapped in a no win situation.

* * *

Frank stiffened when Doctor Kempton proclaimed that Joe was ready to be discharged. Unlike his dad, he hadn't misheard Joe – and those soft words had sent a chill shivering down his spine.

He waited for the inevitable protestations and arguments; after all, Joe was clearly not ready to go anywhere. But, when none were forthcoming, he didn't waste time in confronting his dad – instead, he voiced those concerns for himself:

"He won't be cured by 'rest and Tylenol'." He kept his voice deliberately low; not wanting to go into detail whilst standing over Joe's bed – and then he spun around; his sudden action forcing Doctor Kempton to take more than one step back.

He wasn't a bully by nature but, even at the tender age of eighteen, he could be intimidating when the occasion demanded. Now was one such occasion – and the expression on his face had the doctor retreating to the back wall of the room. And that was as much distance as he was prepared to put between himself and his brother.

"What about the drugs? What about the Chlorpromazine and the Scopolamine?" He kept his voice at a whisper – but his tone was still venomous.

"Neither drug is addictive and, given the doses we're dealing with, neither will have any further effect." The doctor kept her own voice hushed – a fact that surprised Frank and subtly shifted his perception of her. Maybe she did care about her patients; just not about her patients' families. She continued: "They will simply work their way out of his system."

Frank shook his head. The words _'let me go'_ were seared into his brain. He just knew that Joe hadn't been referring to the hospital. His voice had been so desperate… So lost…

He feared that he'd been referring to life itself.

"Please, doctor," he openly begged, a pit of fear opening in his gut – so deep that he feared he might get lost in it. He'd vowed to be strong for his brother, but he didn't know how.

"I'm sorry," Doctor Kempton answered – and she did sound genuine. "But we don't have any reason to keep him here. And we simply don't have the beds."

'_Why the hell do you want us out of here so quickly, lady?' _Frank wondered and then he heard a gasp – and realised that he'd actually spoken those words aloud. He instantly recanted his previously generous change of attitude towards the doctor – there was definitely something amiss about her. The expression on her face was impossible for him to decipher – but he had clearly struck a nerve with his inadvertently voiced comment.

Looking flustered and wholly unprofessional, Doctor Kempton fled from the room. Frank thought he might have heard her say the words: 'discharge papers'.

He glared at the door as it closed behind her – but then hurried back to Joe's side.

If Joe was going to be discharged, as was seeming increasingly likely, then he would be there for him one hundred per cent.

Fixing a smile on his face, he crossed back to Joe's bedside – behaving as though the doctor fleeing the room was a perfectly natural occurrence.

He quickly accepted that arguing with the doctor's decision – which, fundamentally, meant arguing with hospital policy – was futile.

It didn't mean he wasn't still suspicious of her. It just meant that his suspicions were nowhere near as important as his brother's welfare.

* * *

Fenton and Sam both watched in amazement, as the hostile doctor fled from the room as though the hounds of hell had suddenly materialised and were hot on her heels.

"Do you think I was over the top?" Sam self-consciously buttoned up his jacket. He – like Fenton – had heard nothing of the exchange between the doctor and Frank.

"Sam, you just impersonated an FBI Agent," Fenton pointed out – and in another time or place, the situation might have been deemed to be funny; but there was no humour in his tone: "I think that could be a Federal offence."

"I might be worried if I thought she was going to check up on me," Sam murmured in response. He had his own gut instinct about the doctor – and it wasn't a good one.

Fenton glanced sidelong at him: "You get that impression of her too, huh?" Here was one worry he could take steps towards erasing. "Sam…"

"I'm on it." Sam didn't even need the other man to voice any actual request. He would run every imaginable check on Lorraine Kempton – and then he would run some more.

"Thanks." Not needing to spare any further words – and knowing that his gratitude had been conveyed in spite of the absence of many words – Fenton turned his attention back to his sons.

Joe's eyes were, again, closed; but this time he wasn't trying to fool them into thinking he was asleep. There was too much tension in his features and his breathing sounded as though it was forcedly regular. He could read his son well – and Joe was steeling himself; mentally preparing for the consequences of a decision he had made. Only, Fenton couldn't be sure of what that decision was.

'_Let me go home'_ – maybe that was it. The false memory of those words was the best guess that he could come up with. And, if it were true, then Fenton could fully understand why it looked like it was hurting so much. How did you mentally prepare for such a thing?

The answer came to him before he had even consciously acknowledged the silent question: _with the love and support of his family_.

Now they just had to take the first step.

Everything else that was to come, they would deal with in the same way. Any potential trial and the possible need for Joe to testify; every stumbling block along the way – because there were bound to be numerous and some bigger than others; every bad day and night; every scream-inducing nightmare.

They would all be overcome with the same simple solution: just by taking one step at a time.

The very first step was a simple one, especially given Doctor Kempton's stance on the availability of beds and the severity of Joe's injuries. Joe wanted to go home and so they would take him home.

He opened his mouth to convey that to his sons – and then closed it abruptly. In order to go home, Joe would need some clothes. But when he'd been brought in, he'd been wearing that awful orange prison jumpsuit. That had been taken away as evidence – and Fenton wouldn't care if he never saw it again.

But now, one of them had to leave; or he had to inconvenience either Gertrude or Sam to get some fresh clothing to them. And that thought provoked a stray memory – a sudden freeze frame of talking to Sam out in the corridor. Sam had been carrying a holdall.

He looked down and, sure enough, the holdall now sat at the foot of the bed – and Fenton knew that it would contain the required change of clothes.

He shook his head. How had Sam seen this coming? But the question was irrelevant. Joe would have needed those clothes sooner or later.

He took a moment to thank God for Sam Radley – and decided that he would never, ever be able to repay the debt of gratitude he owed to his long time friend.

TBC


	45. Chapter 45

BLAME

The nurse had reappeared, following the doctor's departure – and she smiled sympathetically at Joe.

"You must be famished," she said – and she only said it because it was morning and the breakfast trolleys were making their way down the halls. She had no way of knowing that Joe's diet for the past two days had consisted only of dry bread and then a night of IV fed nutrients.

But when he heard those words, Joe sucked in a breath. In truth, he was beyond hungry; beyond even famished. His stomach felt tight and painful and, right on cue, let out a loud rumble. But the thought of trying to eat made him feel sick. Maybe it was the drugs, or the concussion – but, in spite of his hunger, he didn't think he'd be able to choke down any solid food.

"I don't…" He looked hesitantly at the nurse. The last time he'd been given food, the threat had been made to eat it or starve. "I'm not sure I can…"

"How about you just try a little toast?"

The nurse was obviously only trying to be helpful – even Joe could recognise that – but the reaction she provoked was completely beyond his control. Bread had been his only fare for the last two days – and the thought of eating it again, even toasted, made him gag.

"I can't…" he moaned – and he wanted to curl away from her; to say that he didn't even want any breakfast. But he was almost unbearably hungry.

And the nurse, somehow, seemed to understand. "Then how about a little cereal? Maybe some oatmeal?" she suggested.

Joe nodded. Oatmeal did sound good: easy to eat and even easier on the stomach. And the nurse's smile grew into a full-blown grin.

"I'll be right back," she promised.

* * *

When the nurse moved to leave the room, Fenton followed her.

Her entire exchange with Joe had left him somewhat dumbfounded. His youngest son was asking for oatmeal for breakfast? His boy who should have had a cholesterol level of a fifty-year-old because he loved his junk food so much?

Breakfast, to Joe, was pancakes. If not pancakes, it was bacon and eggs. If not bacon and eggs, it was whatever could be reheated from the night before – or possibly a stray burger leftover from a takeout.

Joe didn't do cereal. And he certainly didn't do oatmeal.

His easy acquiescence to the unusual choice of breakfast was just another reminder of how much his son had changed – or had been forced to change.

And it was like a kick in the gut of a reminder as to how fragile Joe's mental state was right now.

His hand reached out to stop the nurse, as she opened the door:

"I'm sorry, Nurse…" He glanced down at her name badge: Jill Windbrook. "Nurse Windbrook." He took a deep breath. "Joe… My son… He's going to need someone to talk to… I mean… Someone… A professional…" He trailed off in utter helplessness. Exactly how did you ask for psychiatric help for your offspring?

Nurse Windbrook seemed to understand – and she answered as quietly as the question had been asked: "The hospital has a wonderful counsellor; I'll get you his number," she said. She knew how hard it had been for the man before her to state his concerns – and so didn't draw any more attention to it than was necessary. "Now, let me get your son his breakfast. And, please, call me Jill."

After the horror of Doctor Kempton, it warmed Fenton's heart to talk to this nurse – a true professional, totally dedicated to her vocation. Unable to help himself, he grasped her hand.

"Jill, thank you."

* * *

After eating almost half a bowl of oatmeal, Joe retreated into the bathroom to change into the clothing from the bag his dad had given him – and he shrugged off Frank's hands when he tried to help.

"Don't lock the door, Joe." Frank couldn't help but call out; wildly speculating as to how many ways a person could kill themselves inside a hospital bathroom. But then he also felt the need to offer an explanation, given Joe's already fragile frame of mind: "Just in case you fall, bro. You do still have a concussion."

"I get it, Frank." Joe's voice – sounding tired and defeated – floated back out to him.

Joe stripped off his gown and took a moment to check his reflection in the full-length mirror on the wall. The bruise on his jaw – courtesy of Houghton's gun barrel – was vivid and painful looking, though mercifully numbed by drugs.

His right shoulder was a deep, dark purple and he remembered slamming repeatedly into prison bars.

His eyes travelled downwards and he noticed abrasions on his arms and legs that he couldn't quite remember getting. He knew he'd been thrown to the ground during his 'rescue' and maybe that explained those.

The bruises to his feet were more easily explained away. He also remembered kicking wildly at metal bars.

Sighing, he looked into the bag that had been handed to him. In it were clean boxers – the one thing that, thankfully, hadn't been taken from him by Houghton – jeans, a sweatshirt, socks and sneakers.

Joe dressed slowly and then took a few more moments to recheck his appearance.

Much to his consternation – and aside from the bruise on his jaw – he looked perfectly normal. He looked like any other seventeen year old: designer jeans and a high school sweatshirt. And, suddenly, he felt sick.

Turning blindly, he somehow found the john and collapsed to his knees next to it. But when he retched, they were only ever dry heaves. He had nothing of substance in his stomach to relinquish.

Stifling a sob, he collapsed back against the wall. Unbidden, he ran his tongue over his teeth – and then gagged again at the thick, fuzzy sensation he encountered.

"I want to brush my teeth." The words were whispered; sobbed. And he wrapped his arms around his midriff. There hadn't been a toothbrush in the bag. A cry escaped him – and he knew that it was a cry for help; even if he never actually uttered that word.

He hadn't even been allowed to shower – though the actual words from the nurse had been 'ill advised'. Apparently, the combination of the heat and the steam – along with his own weakened state and his concussion – were a recipe for disaster.

So he had skipped the shower. But it wasn't until he dressed that he realised just how dirty and disgusting he felt.

"I just want to be clean!" he cried, as he fell onto his side – wondering if that would even be allowed once he was in prison; wondering if he could have it as his last request before his execution.

Then Joe heard a shout and a bang. A second later his brother was by his side. A supportive arm wrapped around his shoulders and gently pulled him into a hug.

Instinctively, he stiffened and pulled away. Compassion was what his brother did – was who he was – but he didn't deserve it.

"Don't," he hissed. "Just let's… Let's… please… let it be over."

* * *

Frank heard the quiet utterance and deliberately ignored it – or, at least, he didn't acknowledge it. The quiet words had stabbed at his heart, as he couldn't help but think that 'this' could never truly be over.

But he couldn't voice that truth to Joe; couldn't remind him that, when the dust settled, their mom would still be dead. Instead, he clung to his role of Big Brother. It was what he did best – and his response to his brother's plight came easily to him:

"Let's get you out of here, kiddo," he said, ignoring Joe's body language – which screamed 'don't touch me!' – and helping him to his feet. "We can deal with the rest later. Come on, Joe."

And, surprisingly to him, Joe acquiesced. He'd been half-prepared for having to drag him from the bathroom – even as he wondered how he could possibly try to exhibit any show of force after what his brother had been through.

It cut deeply into his heart that the fiery – and often out of line – teenager had been reduced to such a broken shell.

The thought was only reinforced when they emerged from the bathroom and there was a wheelchair waiting in the room – and Joe sat down meekly in it, without even a hint of a protest.

Frank looked at his dad, but Fenton was tight-lipped and angry as he signed the forms presented to him by an apologetic looking nurse.

Joe's discharge papers.

And so there was nothing left for Frank to do, other than take the handles of the wheelchair and guide his brother from the hospital – and back into whatever life had yet to offer them.

* * *

Joe ditched the wheelchair at the main reception desk and walked, with his brother's unwanted aid, out into the world.

Somehow, his dad's car was already outside and waiting for him. He hadn't been aware of him leaving them alone for long enough to bring it around. But then, there were a lot of things he wasn't aware of any more – a stray memory hit him: _'tell me what your brother was wearing this morning'; _and he hated how that made him feel.

But he slid silently into the back of the car – and then remained silent when Frank got in alongside him; even though they had, in the past, fought like cat and dog over who was to get the 'shotgun' seat.

Then Joe turned his face away from Frank's overly concerned gaze and he rested his forehead against the window, watching the scenery go by.

A few minutes later, he sat up straighter. The route was familiar, but not the one he'd been expecting to follow.

"Wait! Stop!" he couldn't help but cry out. "Where are we going?"

"Home, Joe. We're going home." Fenton choked the words out – and tried to make eye contact via the rear view mirror. He failed.

"No!" Joe was distraught – but not for the reasons his dad or his brother might have suspected. "No! The police station!"

And Fenton was forced to look away and return his eyes to the road ahead. He did so just in time to see the light ahead of him turn red and he gently eased down on the brake pedal.

"Joe…" He half-turned; determined to get his message across.

But the moment the car drew to a halt, Joe moved. His right hand slammed at the release to his seatbelt and, the instant he was free, he lunged at the door handle.

He had the door open and was half out when Frank tackled him.

"What the hell are you doing?" Frank yelled, grabbing hold of Joe and dragging him back into the car. "Trying to get yourself killed?"

Silence descended. Silence so thick and dark and depressing that it was like a living thing; threatening to suffocate them all. Frank could hardly believe he'd said the words. It didn't matter that he'd just reacted to the utter terror Joe's actions had sent spiking through him; almost with the power to stop his heart. How much more insensitive could he possibly be?

But, in spite of his self castigation, he kept a firm hold on Joe.

"Please," Joe begged, as he was hauled back into the car. "Please take me to the police station."

Frank could hardly believe when Joe said those words – and it hurt him to think about why he was so desperate to go to the police. He didn't think it was just to give his statement; especially not given the lengths he was clearly prepared to go to.

And so he nodded, reassuringly. At least, at the station there would be someone better prepared to deal with Joe, in his current mental state.

More than anything, he didn't want a repeat of what had just happened. It was clear that Joe was going to the precinct – whether they took him there, or not.

Fenton, still twisted around in his seat, saw the brief tussle – and was utterly powerless to intervene. Then, once Joe was back in the car and seeming subdued, he shook his head: "Joe, you don't have to do this now."

Those words only served to reignite Joe's agitation. He bucked against his brother's still sturdy grip – but, in reality, had no hope of getting free. He squeezed his eyes shut: "Please…" he begged, again.

Then a horn sounded – loud and angry behind them. Unnoticed, the light had turned green, but Fenton didn't care about the impatient driver behind him. He cared about Joe – and, to that end, he met Frank's eyes; silently asking what he should do.

Frank looked helplessly back at him and it was clear that they both shared the same thought: they really shouldn't be taking Joe to talk to the police, but nor could they be fighting to stop him leaping from the car at every intersection.

Somehow, they reached an unspoken agreement.

As the horn sounded behind him again, Fenton pulled a wholly illegal U-turn in order to take Joe to where he was so desperate to get to.

TBC


	46. Chapter 46

**Hi there, I know I keep apologising for the delays in updating – but, unfortunately, time is a commodity I don't have very much of right now. I'll keep writing as fast as I can, but I don't want to compromise on quality.**

**Thanks for your patience. And thanks for reading and reviewing. **

BLAME

By the time they got to the precinct, the atmosphere in the car was beyond tense. It was strained and silent – the conversation having petered out some minutes before their arrival.

Fenton had tried to talk to both of his sons, but Joe wasn't talking to anybody and his mouth was set in a determined scowl; and Frank was too busy trying to get through to Joe, to waste any time in answering him.

So Fenton focused his eyes on the road ahead and stopped even trying to get a response from the back seat. But his ears strained to listen to Frank's low voice and he inwardly winced as each comment or enquiry – growing steadily ever more desperate – was met only by silence.

The questions had started out so simply, but had gradually grown in intensity: _'Are you okay there, bro?'; 'How are you holding up?'; 'Are you sure you need to do this now?'; 'Why do you need to go there anyway?'; 'What are you going to do?'; 'What are you going to say?'_

And then, eventually, even Frank ran out of words. His last two had been: _'Joe, please.'_

But Joe had kept his gaze fixed steadfastly out of the window – and he never even acknowledged one of the questions asked of him.

And when Fenton next glanced in the rear view mirror, he saw lines on their faces and shadows in their eyes – which should never have been seen on any teenaged boy.

Then he parked the car and turned around to look at his sons.

"We're here," he stated, simply.

And Joe was out of the car before the words had barely even left his mouth.

There was no drama – no diving out of the car and wrestling Joe to the ground. Instead, both Fenton and Frank exited the car and followed Joe. Without words – and without really understanding why – they flanked Joe as he marched through the doors.

But they both had to give it one last try: "Joe…" They said, simultaneously.

They were both ignored.

So Fenton dragged his cellphone from his pocket and made the call he should have made the instant of the drama at the traffic lights.

"Ezra…"

It was all that he could manage before Joe reached the Duty Sergeant's desk and said: "Arrest me."

* * *

'_Fenton? Fenton!'_ Ezra's voice yelled from the phone's speaker – and was clearly audible in the hush that had suddenly fallen over the normally bustling room.

Fenton stood with the phone held away from his ear and was looking at Joe with utter compassion. He didn't know exactly what he'd been expecting to happen once they got here, but this certainly wasn't it. He'd anticipated something more dramatic – and definitely more impassioned. Maybe some heartfelt and desperate confession; maybe even some tears.

But Joe was dry-eyed and stoic, his face devoid of any emotion. And he sounded incredibly calm.

"Arrest me," he said again; this time holding out his wrists, as though waiting for a pair of handcuffs to be snapped around them.

Then Ezra's voice again split the silence through Fenton's phone: _'Fenton, what's wrong? Where are you?'_

It didn't quite snap Fenton out of his stupor, but it did enough to reach him and he slowly lifted the phone back to his mouth.

"I'm right here, Chief," he said, his eyes not once straying away from Joe. "We're at the front desk.

And he closed the phone with an audible snap; knowing that Chief Collig wouldn't waste any time with further questions or demands. Not when all the answers he needed were just a few doors away.

* * *

Joe could only watch in stunned disbelief, as the desk sergeant showed absolutely no reaction to his demand.

Instead, the man's eyes sought out someone else.

"Mr Hardy?" the sergeant queried, sounding understandably confused. "What..?"

Joe saw about a dozen shades of red.

"No!" he yelled. "Don't talk to him!" Still with a startling degree of rationality, he looked around; seeking a cop who didn't know him or his family – as the Sergeant obviously did – and so who wouldn't offer any preferential treatment.

There were a number of officers who he didn't recognise, but none were making any movement towards him. Instead, they were all looking at the Sergeant for guidance – but none was forthcoming.

"Listen to me!" Joe could hardly believe what was happening. In his head, it had all played out so simply: he would be arrested and face his punishment. But that was all falling apart and he started to grow frantic. He _had _to be arrested. It was the only road open to him and the only way he could consider his future without being completely and utterly crippled by guilt. "I'm turning myself in! I'm a murderer!"

There were shouts and denials from behind him, but Joe successfully tuned them out – because Chief Collig chose that exact moment to arrive.

"Make them arrest me!" Joe rounded on him before he even had the chance to demand what the hell was going on – as they were guaranteed to be the first words out of the Chief's mouth – and he was on the verge of desperation. Somewhere in his clouded and confused mix of memories and forced confessions, which he wasn't capable of identifying as lies, he remembered Collig being there.

The Police Chief had witnessed at least one of his interrogations – and Joe grasped hold of that thought. It didn't matter that he couldn't remember Collig ever speaking; didn't matter that he was only – even in his mind's eye – a shadowy figure silently watching.

Collig had been there – and he _knew_.

"Joe…" The Chief grabbed hold of his shoulders – and then seemed to run out of words. He looked past him, to where Joe knew his father stood.

Joe Hardy had an inherent sense of right and wrong; he had an utmost understanding and respect of the law; he believed wholly in the criminal justice system and had nothing but respect for the police.

He never would have believed himself capable of what happened next:

Tearing himself free of Collig's grasp, he pushed the Police Chief full in the chest – not with all of his strength, but with enough force to make the older man stagger back a step or two.

"Arrest me!" he demanded again and now he was begging – but, still, nobody moved.

He thought about swinging his fists; he even drew his arm back to do just that. But he was incapable of resorting to such an action no matter how desperate he might have been. He wasn't a thug and couldn't just lash out blindly.

Not knowing what else to do, Joe turned and ran from the precinct.

* * *

Frank watched the drama unfold with a sense of complete disbelief – which quickly transformed into frustration and then helpless anger.

The rage was directed at his father who had grabbed hold of him and then refused to let go.

All he had was his voice and he'd tried to use it: at first placating, as had often proved successful in the past. His calm logic might have irked Joe, but it also got through to him more often than not.

But then he'd heard his brother say: _'I'm a murderer'_ and all sense had been kicked into touch. He'd yelled out a denial and fought anew against his dad's restraint. It had been no use. The grip on him only tightened.

Even as he inwardly raged against his father, not a single curse towards him escaped his lips. He hated being kept from Joe, but his infernal logic instantly provided him with the reasons why Fenton was behaving as he was:

Joe was beyond thought and beyond reason. He was going to strike out at anybody who tried to stop him from his hell bent path of self-destruction. And that truth was reinforced when he shoved Ezra Collig away from him.

If Frank had been the one to try and stop him – and if Joe had raised a hand against him…

That was the one thing that Joe could never, ever fully recover from.

But when Joe fled from the precinct, there wasn't a force on this Earth that could stop Frank from following.

He was free without even knowing how he had gotten so and he left his dad, Chief Collig, Con Riley – had he been there all along? – and about a half dozen other cops trailing in his wake.

When they got outside, the sight they were greeted with stopped them all dead in their tracks.

* * *

Joe had found a two-by-four and, in spite of his concussion and in spite of his injuries, was swinging it around like a madman. His target was nearly new and very familiar – to some of them, at least – Mercedes. And the car already had a massive dent in the passenger side door.

The second swing of the weapon made short work of the passenger window; the third took out the entire front windscreen.

"Why won't you arrest me..?"

Joe wasn't shouting any more. He was on the verge of sobbing; of pleading. He hefted the piece of wood again and slammed it onto the car's roof. The blow must have been jarring and painful. Even in his highly charged state, Joe staggered and almost dropped the makeshift weapon.

Then he hefted it again: "Please…" and took out the rear window.

Cops milled around, looking uncomfortable and looking towards their Chief for guidance. Collig looked on the verge of apoplexy and he nailed Fenton with a laser-like glare.

Fenton's shoulders sagged and he was about to admit utter defeat, when suddenly a stray memory hit him: _"I just had to take something out of the room with me." _He knew what he had to do.

He took a deep breath and steeled himself for what was bound to follow.

"Do it," he said. "Arrest him." Ignoring Frank's inevitable protest from next to him, he caught hold of Collig's arm: "Just don't specify the charges."

"Riley!" Collig snapped, without a moment of hesitation. "Do what he said. And make sure you read him his rights."

Con, having overheard their entire conversation, swallowed hard. This might not go down easily; especially if Joe refused to relinquish his weapon. Piece of wood or not, it still had the potential to do some damage – and to more than a car.

But he'd been given an order and it was his duty to carry it out. He forced the fact that it was Joe Hardy in front of him from his mind and took an assertive step forwards.

"Drop the weapon!" he commanded – and it was the same tone he would have used if he'd been facing a man with a gun. He had to distance himself. It was the only way he could possibly get through this. "Drop it! You're under arrest!"

The piece of wood clattered harmlessly to the floor and Joe slowly raised his hands. Then, with slow and controlled movements, he placed them on the car's now dented roof.

"You have the right to remain silent…" Con approached Joe slowly – and he risked a glance back over his shoulder. But Fenton and Collig were both talking quietly – but intensely – to Frank.

He was on his own.

"Anything you say can and will be used against you…" Con continued reciting the Miranda and then, not knowing what else to do, he followed procedure: as gently as he could – but unable to disguise what he was doing – he cuffed Joe's hands behind his back.

TBC


	47. Chapter 47

**Thanks for reading and reviewing. **

BLAME

Frank was horrified, distraught and disgusted – and two words had done that to him. Two words uttered by his own father: _'arrest him'_.

"What the hell are you doing?" he demanded – but he had no intention of waiting for an answer; not when Collig had passed the order on and it was in the process of being carried out.

He tried to brush past his dad, but was met by immediate resistance. His father's hand planted in the centre of his chest and Chief Collig caught hold of his bicep.

"Let me go!" He battled futilely against them. "Stop this!"

"Frank, listen to me." Fenton didn't raise his voice, but kept it low and serious. He grasped Frank's jaw and forced him to look at him: "We have to do this. There's no choice."

"Of course there's a choice!" Frank snapped back. "Let me talk to him." His voice grew more desperate as he watched Con approach his brother.

"Frank, your dad's right." It was Collig who voiced the next argument. "Joe's beyond talking. He's beyond listening. Dammit, Frank look what he's done to my car!" Anger flashed in the Chief's eyes, but it was swiftly quashed – so quickly, Frank couldn't be certain if it had actually even been there. "And if that wasn't enough to get him arrested, what do you think he'd have tried next? You want to see him turn that thing on a person?"

"Joe would never hurt anyone," Frank protested, outraged.

"And I'd never have believed him capable of criminal damage – but that's what he's just done." Collig's voice was equally impassioned. "It was just blind chance that had him coming across my car first. Joe could have been in serious trouble here."

Frank didn't want to agree, but he couldn't refute what had just happened. Slowly – and feeling as though he was somehow betraying his brother – he nodded.

But he still couldn't fully believe this to be the best course of action.

"But, by doing this, aren't you just reinforcing his belief that he's guilty?" In his head, the logic of it was irrefutable and he couldn't help but fear they were playing right into Houghton's hands. "I don't see how this can…" He trailed off and turned away; putting his hands on his hips and squeezing his eyes shut. He was determined not to break down – not when there was still so much at stake. He had to remain strong.

Then a strong hand fell on his shoulder and he knew, without looking, that it was his father's hand. It was so firm, so reassuring, that his so recently affirmed resolve wavered and then crumbled completely. Spinning around, he collapsed into his father's embrace.

"What's going to happen to him dad?" he gasped. In his head, the future had taken a decidedly terrifying turn: Joe arrested; Joe signing his confession; Joe convicted for something that was in no way his fault; Joe going to jail…

Then his dad was stroking his hair and murmuring soothing words. Trying to pull himself together, Frank stiffened and pulled away.

Fenton regarded him for the longest of moments and then nodded once. He deliberately didn't draw attention to Frank's momentary loss of control – God knew, he'd had such moments himself over the last few days. Instead he began to talk; to outline the plan that had formulated in his mind the moment he recalled his interrogation with Houghton.

"Houghton told me that it had been easy…" He explained – his voice tight with anger, just at the thought of the man. "Easy to convince Joe that the accident had been his fault; that he was responsible."

"No. Joe's stronger than that." Frank automatically leapt to his brother's defence; but in his heart he knew that Joe had been a long way removed from strong, even before Houghton took him.

"Not this time, son." Fenton's softly spoken answer only confirmed that thought. Then, not wanting to dwell on what had already transpired – or on his own feelings of guilt and inadequacy – he continued: "He said it was easy because Joe had absolutely no memory of what had happened; not even a glimmer."

Frank caught hold of his arm, stopping him dead in his tracks: "But I still don't see how this can possibly help him."

"Houghton planted a false history in Joe's mind and convinced him it was the truth." His dad continued with the explanation. "Now we have the means to prove to him that it was all a lie. We have the one thing Joe can't possibly dispute – the evidence."

Not blinded by emotion as Frank was, Chief Collig had quickly caught on to what his old friend was doing. He took one last, regretful look at his battered car: "And now we have him in a position where he has no choice but to listen," he concluded.

* * *

A few minutes later, Fenton and Frank – the Chief having gone to 'sort things out' – stood in a viewing room looking in on an Interview Room; the very same room from which Fenton had witnessed Mason and Carr attempt to interrogate Graham Houghton.

He tried not to see it as a bad omen. But, as he looked in on his youngest son, his heart almost broke – and he wondered as to his ability to fulfil the difficult task that lay ahead.

Joe was not alone. Con Riley stood just behind him – his hands folded behind his back; and looking distinctly uncomfortable.

But Fenton didn't care about Con: it was the completely – and totally alien – look of defeat on his son's face that captured and held his attention.

Joe's handcuffs had been removed and his forearms were rested lightly on the table at which he sat. His hands were clasped loosely together.

But it was his eyes…

His vibrant blue eyes were fixed into a 'thousand mile stare'; the kind he had only ever witnessed on people who'd survived unimaginable trauma.

Sadly, Fenton knew exactly what trauma his son was currently reliving. Lie or not it was the truth to Joe – and he inwardly cursed, willing the Chief to hurry up and get what they needed.

He bowed his head: get what they needed so he could walk into that room and interrogate his own son.

Then Frank said: "I want to be in there."

"That's not an option." Fenton had been anticipating this argument and so was prepared for it. "We're not playing a game here. Joe _is_ under arrest – and there are protocols that have to be followed."

"But you're going in…" Frank tried to argue.

Fenton was more than ready for him: "Yes, I am. And I can be completely justified. You can't." He didn't spell out the reasons for that justification. He didn't want to think about them too deeply.

"Dad, please…" Frank wasn't yet ready to give up: "He's going to need a friend in there…"

"No, Frank. That's the one thing he doesn't need." It almost killed Fenton to say those words, but he had to force his point home: "The one thing he isn't going to have."

There was a brief knock on the door and then Chief Collig poked his head into the room. He nodded once. It was time.

Unable to leave his eldest son just hanging as he was, Fenton grabbed hold of his arms.

"When this is over, he's going to need you more than he's ever needed anyone in his life before." He looked deeply into Frank's eyes. "And that's why you can't go in there."

* * *

Joe snapped out of his stupor when the door to the Interview Room opened. He sighed softly when Chief Collig walked in – and then returned his gaze to the table top.

A file slapped down – and he jumped at the sudden noise.

He looked up again and then did a double-take when he saw his father staring impassively back at him.

"No." He shook his head and his eyes sought out the Chief's. "No, I don't want him to do this. I don't want him here."

Collig looked back at him, with a distinctly unimpressed air. He didn't even blink in the face of Joe's demand.

"Chief, I don't want him to do this!" Joe tried again – desperate now.

Collig's shoulders stiffened momentarily and then he leant over the table which separated him from Joe. "You're under arrest, son," he growled, trying to treat Joe as he would any other perp – and not the son of his oldest friend. "What you want doesn't really count for very much any more."

Joe visibly sagged in his seat and he nodded. "I want to confess," he sighed. "I want…"

"Again, what you want is irrelevant." Collig sat down in one of the chairs on the opposite side of the table to Joe. "We're going to ask questions and you're going to answer them, okay?"

Joe's chin dropped onto his chest: "Okay," he whispered.

Chief Collig seemed completely unmoved. "You have waived the right to an attorney," he continued – the ultimate professional. "At any point during the interview, you may call a halt to proceedings and invoke that right."

"I don't need an attorney." Joe re-affixed his gaze to the table top. It was the only way he could see of getting through this. "Can we just get it over with?"

"Yes, Joe, we can."

At those words, Joe looked up into his father's impassioned eyes. He flinched away from them and squeezed his own eyes closed. He wasn't so sure that he could do this – but he'd burned his bridges and was left with no choice.

"Let me confess," he begged, without even opening his eyes.

"No. Questions and answers first." Fenton's voice was hard and unyielding. "Tell me everything you remember about the day Laura Hardy died."

"I killed her…" Joe tried to fall in on himself – but then a hand slapped angrily against the Formica surface of the table.

"That's not what he asked, is it?" Collig barked at him. "He said everything you remember about that day. And that means everything."

"Start from where you left the house." Fenton rejoined the double-team attack. "You and your mother. Tell us what you remember."

And Joe slowly, hesitantly recalled their shopping trip; their unscheduled change of plans; Laura dropping her phone. And then he trailed off into silence.

"Then what?" His dad's voice was a harsh and broken whisper. "What else do you remember?"

"The light was green and I drove though it." Joe sank down in his chair and hugged his arms around his midriff. He'd wanted to confess – but it was proving to be almost impossibly hard. He let the next words escape in a rush: "I hit the gas and not the brake and I spun the car and I hit the pole and I…"

"Stop!" His dad's voice cut through his babbling. "I asked you what you remember. What you _remember_." He took a deep breath. "Tell me what you really remember."

"I killed my mom." Joe was aching, trying to keep the sobs inside. "I killed her."

"Tell me what you remember." His dad was relentless.

"I hit the gas and I spun into the pole and I killed her!" Joe almost screamed in response.

Then a photograph was thrown face-up onto the table. It was a picture of his mom's car – taken minutes after the crash. Even Joe could recognise that.

"What pole?" Chief Collig asked, dispassionately. He didn't need emotion; he had evidence.

Joe stared at the picture in incomprehension. "No," he gasped. "I hit the gas…"

Another picture was thrown at him; followed almost instantly by a third. "Look at the tyre tracks." Now it was his dad in his face. "One set is braking, the other accelerating. Can you see the difference?"

And Joe could – but he still couldn't quite understand.

"Do you really think Graham Houghton hit the brakes as he ran that light and hit your car?" Collig was back on his feet and leaning over the table. He slammed his hand onto the table and Joe almost jumped out of his skin. "Do you?"

Joe shook his head – suddenly feeling overwhelmed and lost.

"Why?" he asked, shakily. "Why won't you just let me confess?"

"Listen to what I'm saying!" Every angry word – and every subsequent flinch from Joe – twisted the knife in Fenton's gut, but he pressed on. This had to work. "Look at what we're showing you!"

"Look at the evidence, Joe." Collig waved the photographs in his face. "Look!" he implored. "One car braked and the other accelerated."

Joe's fingertips ghosted towards the photographs – but he stopped short of actually touching them: "I don't… I don't understand…" he murmured.

"What is there not to understand?" The photos were placed back on the table and then a tan folder joined them. "Accident Investigation." A second file landed atop the first. "CSU. They both reached the same conclusion." Collig flipped the top folder open, leafed through a few pages and began to read: _'Conclude that the reckless driving – by an unknown perpetrator – of a two-tone brown 1987 Buick contributed directly to the death of Laura Hardy.'_"

"Those are facts, Joe." Fenton stepped in. "That is evidence. Now talk to me. Tell me exactly what you remember."

"I don't know…" Joe looked up desperately – his gaze switching rapidly between the two men. "I remember… I think I remember…"

"No, Joe. You're just remembering what Houghton told you. The lies he told you." Fenton retorted, his passion growing along with his desperation. "And he only ever used words didn't he, Joe? Didn't he?" He didn't even wait for a response from his son. "He had to, Joe, because that's all he had. He couldn't show you any evidence, because he had none." He grabbed one of the files for emphasis. "All he had was his lies."

Joe stared at the folder in his dad's hands. He thought he remembered Houghton having a file identical to it – but he couldn't be sure. He couldn't be sure of anything any more.

"So what are you going to believe?" Fenton pressed, relentlessly. "The words of a convicted madman? Or the evidence right in front of you?"

But Joe couldn't answer. Everything in his mind had become cloudy and confused – and his head was starting to ache fiercely. He collapsed back into his chair and mumbled: "I don't know what to believe any more."

TBC


	48. Chapter 48

**Unfortunately, my schedule is very hectic between now and the New Year – but I WILL write and update as often as I can. I'm also falling way behind with my own reading and reviewing, but I will try and catch up just as soon as I can. **

**Thanks for the incredible reviews,**

**Helen**

BLAME

Frank rested his head against the cool glass window through which he'd witnessed Joe's traumatic interview. He'd had to strain to hear his brother's final, quiet words – but he did hear them and they sent a blessed sense of relief flooding through him.

Not knowing what to believe was a far cry removed from genuinely believing that he was responsible for his mother's death.

Frank saw it as a good sign – a great sign – but the tension within the Interview Room hadn't diminished one iota. Instead, it seemed as strained as it had been when they first began – if not more so.

They were waiting for Joe to elaborate; waiting for him to either accept or denounce the evidence strewn across the table in front of him.

But Joe appeared to be done in – and Frank wondered if that was his cue for him to go in and be the friend his brother so clearly desperately needed. But his dad's body language wasn't an invitation: he stood rigid and unyielding, as he stared down at his youngest son.

Frank's heart went out to him. It must have been nigh on impossible for him to do this; to remain so calm, dispassionate and impersonal as he went over the evidence of the car crash which had killed his wife.

And he could see that Fenton was barely holding it together.

Joe could fix this. Joe could make everything right with just a few words; just an 'I believe you'. Even a nod of the head would have been better than the limbo that currently existed inside that room.

But Joe had seemingly retreated in on himself and even a gentle prompt from the Chief elicited no response.

Then suddenly the impasse was broken, as Joe swept his arm across the table. Files and photographs were sent tumbling to the floor.

"Why are you doing this?" Joe demanded, surging to his feet. "Why won't you just let me confess?"

Frank almost ripped the door of the viewing room from its hinges in his haste to get to his brother.

* * *

Even in the few short seconds it took to get into the Interview Room, the scenario had changed by the time Frank burst in there. Joe was back in his seat – and Con's strong hand on his shoulder was clearly the reason for that.

But, in spite of his worry over Joe, it was his dad who really captured his attention.

Fenton Hardy – renowned Private Investigator, former cop and veteran of interviewing suspect and victims alike – had collapsed into a chair opposite Joe and was holding his head in his hands. He looked the picture of complete and utter defeat.

This had been his one and only shot – and he'd failed.

But Frank wasn't prepared to give up quite so easily.

For a brief moment, at least, they had seemed to get through to Joe. But they'd underestimated Houghton; underestimated his methods.

Joe hadn't only been subjected to mere words. He'd been subjected to drugs and sleep deprivation and God-only-knew what other mind control techniques. He'd been brainwashed – and just facts, files and photos would never be enough to undo the damage that had been done.

Without speaking, without letting Joe know that he was there – for he'd not even reacted to his dramatic storming into the room – Frank bent down and began to retrieve the detritus strewn across the floor.

After a few seconds, he felt a presence behind him and he looked up into Collig's concerned eyes.

"I'm sorry, Frank," the Chief said, sincerely. "I really thought that this would work."

Getting to his feet, Frank turned to face him: "I want to try."

He saw Collig look over his shoulder to where his father sat – silently asking his permission; but there was no help coming from that quarter. The Chief gave a half-shrug and Frank saw it as the go-ahead.

He pulled the remaining chair around, so that it was side on to where Joe sat and placed the files down. He didn't know what he had in mind; but he did know that they shouldn't quit.

His father's idea to get through to Joe had been a good one. It just wasn't going to show them instant results. They needed to persevere; to keep reminding Joe of the actual truth; to make him see it for himself. They needed to be methodical and go over every single scrap of evidence over and over again.

It would take time and patience. The words would have to be spoken with conviction – without even a hint of hesitation. They would need to be spoken with love and understanding and possibly even in anger, on occasion.

And they would need to be spoken as many times as it took for Joe to genuinely believe them – even if that was a thousand times. It might take days or even weeks – but Frank knew that it _would_ work – and he was completely committed to the task ahead.

Opening the file that lay on top of the pile he'd gathered, he turned it so that both he and Joe could see the contents. It was the Accident Investigation report.

"Okay." He took a deep breath. "Why don't we see what these guys had to say?'

* * *

Joe didn't know what to do.

His confusion – not helped by his now raging headache – had free rein over him and he wasn't even thinking coherently any more.

Stray memories bombarded him and cruel words slammed into his skull: _'mother-killer', 'matricide'._

They were all he could hear.

All he could see were words on a sheet of paper; words that spelt out exactly what he'd done and thoroughly compounded his guilt.

"_My name is Joseph Hardy and I killed my mother."_

He had said those words aloud. He had already confessed. So why wasn't anyone listening to him now?

He'd thought that his dad and Chief Collig were making some sort of sense – but that was when the agonising memories had first started to haunt him. Both realities couldn't possibly be true – and, though he couldn't know it, Houghton's techniques had formed a lasting and damning impression.

Details filtered back to him – through the fog in his mind and penetrating past the words that continued to scream at him.

"_I was involved in a minor accident and I lost control of my car…"_

'_Mother-killer!' 'Matricide!'_

But he'd seen pictures and heard words about facts and evidence.

"_I should have hit the brake, but I hit the gas instead…"_

'_Mother-killer!' 'Matricide!'_

"_Do you really think Graham Houghton hit the brakes as he ran that light and hit your car?"_

"_So what are you going to believe? The words of a convicted madman? Or the evidence right in front of you?"_

"_The momentum crushed my mother's skull."_

'_Mother-killer!' 'Matricide!'_

He hadn't even been aware of scattering the files across the floor; of surging to his feet and being forced to sit back down. He wasn't even aware of Frank bursting into the room and, later, sitting down next to him.

But he did hear Frank's voice and it almost destroyed him.

He remembered a nightmare – or perhaps it was a vision of the future. He was going to his execution and Frank wasn't there. He'd pushed his brother away so forcefully that there was no way for him to come back.

Now Joe knew exactly how to make that come to pass. Though it hurt him deeply to do so, he knew it would only help in the long run.

He ignored the file that was proffered to him and he spoke without even looking at his beloved brother – the most precious thing he had in the world – knowing that these might be the very last words he ever said to him: "I already confessed, Frank," he murmured, cutting through his brother's attempts to get him to look at some file. "Make him show you. When you see what I did…" He sighed and squeezed his eyes shut against unbidden tears. "Well, I… I'll understand if you hate me."

He felt the warmth of a hand clasp his arm, but he ignored it. Frank said something about never hating him, but he ignored that too.

"Just… Just watch it," he insisted.

* * *

Fenton's head snapped up when he heard those words. They rang a bell with him – a raucous, grating and unpleasant bell. But he had no choice but to listen to it.

Collig had told him about a signed confession; but that had been a piece of paper found in Houghton's pocket – and Joe clearly hadn't been referring to that:

"_When you see…"_ and _"Just watch it…" _clearly hadn't been referring to a written confession.

Emily Hudson's story was suddenly thrust to the forefront of his mind and he stood up so quickly that everyone – even Joe – started in surprise.

He didn't care. The connection had fallen into place and his heart was pounding so rapidly, he might well have been on the verge of a coronary.

It didn't matter. Emily Hudson mattered.

He grasped at Chief Collig's wrist: "Where are those FBI Agents?" he demanded.

Ezra looked understandably taken aback by the question. Adrian Mason and Thomas Carr – most especially Thomas Carr – had been more than a thorn in their sides during this investigation. They had been a dagger.

"Where are they?" he asked again.

"Last I heard, they were spending the night in a motel before waiting for a Federal escort to take Houghton to Riker's Island."

Fenton's lips thinned at that, but he didn't offer the angry retort he wanted to. Not in front of Joe. The only reason Houghton would be taken to Riker's was because he was awaiting a trial – and he didn't want to remind his son of what he might yet be subjected to.

He paused for a second and looked back over his shoulder at his boys. Joe had, again, returned to gazing listlessly at the tabletop; but Frank was still looking at him in shock and confusion.

Fenton offered a small smile: "Just… hang in there," was the only advice he had to offer – and he was relieved when he got the slightest of nods in response.

Then he dragged the Chief out into the corridor and said: "I need to talk to them."

Collig reacted with predictable disbelief: "Weren't you the one who didn't want them anywhere near you? Anywhere near Joe?"

"Emily Hudson." Fenton only said those two words – and he thought they'd be all he needed. But not everybody was as obsessed with Graham Houghton as he was – and a Police Chief with a million cases on his mind might not remember every little detail like Fenton did.

"Joe said 'watch it'. He said 'when you see', he elaborated. "A month after Emily's release, her husband was sent a tape. We know that Houghton documents what he's doing and now I think…" He paused as the dreadful truth became more than an idea and manifested cohesively in his mind: "I think he recorded Joe confessing to killing his mother."

"Fenton, we found nothing…" Ezra tried to offer reassurance, but then trailed off as he realised the hole in his argument.

Fenton spelled it out for him, anyway: "Carl Stafford is out there, somewhere. And he has that recording. As much as I hate to say it, Mason and Carr are the best chance we have of finding him."

TBC


	49. Chapter 49

**So sorry, I really didn't intend to wait this long for the next update. But, aside from Christmas getting in the way, I've had a terrible struggle with writers' block. I hope you can forgive me – and I doubly hope that this chapter is up to speed. **

**As always, thanks for the incredible reviews,**

**Helen**

**HAPPY HOLIDAYS EVERYONE!**

BLAME

Ezra Collig folded his arms across his chest and looked at his friend in utter incredulity.

"The last time you had anything to do with those two, you punched Thomas Carr," he reminded Fenton. "I can't see them exactly bending over backwards to help you out now."

Fenton's head dropped as he was forced to accept what his friend was saying to him. He wasn't in a position to ask anything of those two. Even though his fight had only ever really been with Carr, there was no doubt that Mason would take his partner's side when it came to dealings with the PI.

But he couldn't simply let this go – not given what was at stake. He had to make the Chief understand.

"Houghton held on to that recording for one month," he stressed. "For a whole month, she was fine and then it landed on her doorstep and she killed herself. I…" He couldn't disguise the terror this invoked in him: "I can't… I _won't_ let that happen to Joe." The look that he aimed at Collig was filled with desperation; and also held more than a hint of pleading. "Can't you do something?"

But Collig could only shake his head. He'd already pushed jurisdictional cooperation beyond its limits – and he knew there were no official channels left for him to explore.

"Fenton, if you approach them now, then they'll either laugh in your face or they'll use it against you," he explained. "They'll be wanting to talk to Joe. Are you going to let them use him as a bargaining chip?" The only response he got was a look of utter outrage and so he pressed on: "I've kept him being here quiet so far – but you know how cops can talk…"

He didn't need to say any more than that. He wasn't being disparaging towards his colleagues – but there was a wrecked Mercedes right outside the precinct which was bound to draw more than one enquiry.

Not wanting to leave his friend high and dry – and looking hopelessly lost for ideas – Collig had only one suggestion: "Has Radley ever met them? Maybe he'd have some luck."

"No." Fenton answered, distractedly. "He's busy chasing down Doctor Kempton. Isn't there anyone..?"

"You've got Sam doing background on Lorraine Kempton?" Collig interrupted, frowning in concern. "You need to tell him to stop."

Fenton's sharp mind picked up on those words – and his sharp eyes focussed on the Chief. And, for once in his life, Collig back-pedalled.

"I meant that Radley would probably have more luck with the Feds…" he tried to bluster.

"No. No that's not what you said." Fenton's eyes narrowed and he felt an itch of paranoia twitch between his shoulder blades. Not one to mince his words, he asked the question at the forefront of his mind. "What about Lorraine Kempton?"

It was almost alien to see Ezra Collig squirm, but that was what he was doing. He looked around; first over one shoulder and then the other. And then he hustled Fenton into a corner, as though deathly afraid of being overheard.

"She's on the Witness Protection Programme," he hissed. He looked around again – in some way, he felt like he'd betrayed an oath. "You need to tell Sam to stop digging."

Now Fenton could understand her aversion to him and his family: she was a Protected Witness and, as such, had been offered a new life in exchange for whatever testimony she had to offer. A PI turning up at her hospital must have terrified her – for who was better qualified to unearth her secret?

And her fear would have been justified. After all, the first thing he had done was to have her investigated.

Fenton pinched the bridge of his nose. Squeezing his eyes shut, he offered a half-prayer: _God, let me do something right._

He fished his cellphone from his pocket, intending to call Sam and tell him to curtail the investigation. To get to the truth about Kempton, Sam had the potential danger of breaching Federal law – and Fenton wasn't about to let him do that.

But, before he could even dial, the Chief plucked his phone from his nerveless fingers. "I'll explain to Radley," he offered. "You should be with your boys."

"Ezra, thanks," Fenton said, with heartfelt gratitude.

But Collig shrugged the sentiment away. There was still one potentially unpleasant task to fulfil.

He sighed before speaking: "You need to be thinking about getting Joe out of here," he said. "I can't hold him without charging him and…"

Panic stabbed through Fenton's chest. He remembered the Mercedes and the damage inflicted – and he totally misunderstood what Collig was trying to say.

"I'll pay for what he did to your car," he promised. "You don't need to…"

"My car doesn't matter." Collig almost smiled at the miscommunication, but there was absolutely no mirth in the situation. "But Joe… Joe's convinced he's guilty. And the longer we keep him here, the more we're playing into that belief." He paused and then looked at Fenton. "But I do believe Frank's got the right idea. Keep talking to him; convince him of what really happened. As long as it takes."

Fenton nodded faintly – trying hard to share the Chief's optimism. He squared his shoulders and reopened the Interview Room door. It had only been a few minutes, but maybe Frank was already making some progress.

After all, if anyone was going to get through to Joe then it would be his big brother.

* * *

Frank looked down at the first page of the file and tried to prepare for the task ahead. In his mind, the plan had seemed incredibly simple: go over the investigation notes with Joe word for word – and time and time again. For as long as it took for the facts to sink in and become a reality.

But it didn't help that Joe had totally refused to acknowledge him, since their father's dramatic exit from the room. He wouldn't even look down at the file Frank proffered to him, but just stared resolutely at the wall.

Frank wasn't about to be deterred by such a minor detail. Though Joe might not want to look, he couldn't avoid listening.

His dark eyes scanned the first page, taking in the information and forming a cohesive argument in his head. Reading impersonally from the page wasn't going to cut it. He had to have the facts organised and in the right order, so that there could be no doubt and no room for argument. He had to present the evidence as irrefutable – so as to break through not only Houghton's brainwashing, but also Joe's own inherent stubbornness. And that would be an achievement in its own right.

He frowned faintly as he noticed references to appendices, footnotes, sidebars and even exhibits – and he futilely wished for more time to prepare for this.

But time was one commodity he did not have and so, as prepared as he possibly could be, he began to talk about Firestones and Goodyears, patterns of tyre tracks and the measurements of skid marks.

Even as he spoke, Frank couldn't help but marvel at the depth of the investigation. There truly was no room for doubt – but that was hardly surprising, given who the victim was and how personally involved the Chief of Police was with the case.

However, none of the words provoked so much as a hint of a reaction from Joe; not even when Frank – stumbling over the words – mentioned the "female passenger pronounced dead at the scene".

He risked a glance towards Con, unable to believe that his brother didn't even blink at the impersonal, almost cold-blooded pronouncement. He felt despair begin to stir in his gut. If that couldn't get through to Joe then he didn't know what would – no matter how many times they repeated themselves to him.

Then Con gave the slightest nod; the tiniest encouragement that he should keep going – but it was so hard. He hadn't anticipated how doing this would affect him personally. And, without even a hint of any success, it was almost impossible to find the reasons to put himself through such agony.

All it took was a glance at Joe – and he found all the motivation he needed. And then some.

He had made vows and promises – and all of them had centred around Joe; around getting him through the other side of this; around bringing him back to them unscathed.

With a reaffirmed sense of resolve – but still hoping for some sort of inspiration – Frank flipped the page over. His eyes scanned the first of the witness statements and they all just collaborated everything he had already said: _'The Buick ran the lights; the Sedan was sent into a spin…' _The information was identical, but far less detailed. They weren't what Joe needed.

And they weren't what _he_ needed, either. He needed a reaction, a response, anything to prove to him that he was getting somewhere – even if that somewhere was only the smallest of baby-steps.

His dad and Chief Collig had got a reaction – albeit not the most positive one. At least it had been more than the blank stare that was all Joe now seemed capable of.

And then it hit him: Joe had reacted with confusion to the mention of the pole.

Working quickly, he sifted through the photographs and found the one his dad had slapped onto the table. That tactic wasn't going to work again and so Frank grasped the picture in one hand and leant over the table towards Joe.

He leant in so close that their faces were almost touching.

"Have you noticed what's missing, Joe? Have you noticed what nobody has mentioned: not the Accident Investigators? The CSU? The police? Any of the witnesses?" Frank let his voice raise; let his frustration feed his temper, which was normally held so carefully in check. He waved the photograph in Joe's face. The photograph taken at the scene of the accident – which looked so innocuous: a brown Sedan sitting in the centre of an intersection. But it might be enough to save his brother's life. "There is no pole, Joe!" He was shouting now and he slapped the picture into Joe's face. "Look! There is no pole!"

And, finally, the desolate blue eyes were forced to focus. Joe jerked his head back, but Frank was relentless and followed his movement – forcing him to look. Really look.

Tears filled his brother's eyes, but even that was not enough to make Frank back off. As much as it devastated him to do so – to cause his own brand of hurt on Joe, who had already suffered more than anyone ever should – he had to make sure his point had been forced home.

"Look at it!" He was out of his seat now – merciless as he tried to force Joe to _see_. "This is a crime scene photograph and THERE IS NO POLE!"

"Stop it!" Joe tried to surge to his feet, but Con was there and he didn't have any route of escape. "Stop it!"

Frank's heart skipped at the pleading note his brother's voice had taken on, but he ruthlessly clamped down on his compassion. As much as this hurt, it was a necessary evil. "Tell me what you see, Joe." He forced calmness into his voice, belied by the fact that he couldn't calm his heavy breathing. "Look at it like a detective, bro. Tell me what you _don't_ see."He sat down and, again, pushed the photograph forwards. " And if he lied to you about that, why won't you accept that he lied to you about everything else?"

Frank hated himself when his brother began to cry – but he also couldn't help but feel a small flash of elation. Guilt swiftly followed. Joe's pain should never be a cause of happiness for him – and most especially when he had been the one to inflict it.

Not knowing exactly how he should be feeling, he again looked to Con for guidance. The cop had no verbal assurances to offer – only a small smile; a silent 'well done'.

To Frank, that smile was worth a thousand words.

TBC


	50. Chapter 50

**This chapter is a little shorter, but I like where it ends ;-)**

**I hope you enjoy.**

**As always, thanks for the incredible reviews,**

**Helen**

**Happy New Year and best wishes for a healthy, happy and prosperous 2009.**

BLAME

The exchange between Frank and Joe was so intense that neither brother noticed when the door gently opened and their father slipped silently back into the room.

For that, Fenton was immeasurably grateful.

It meant he could witness that first breakthrough; the first significant crack in the armour Joe had barricaded around himself so effectively; albeit with Houghton's help. It also meant that he had to witness Joe's tears – and, like Frank, they prompted a strange mixture of emotions: joy tinged with sadness, mixed with relief and intertwined with guilt.

It was a heady, disturbing mix – and Fenton didn't quite know which feeling he should allow to rise to the fore. But one did so anyway; and of its own volition. It was none of the things that had been vying within him – but, instead, the predominant feeling was of absolute and utter pride. Pride in Frank for persevering and finding the key to unlocking that armour; pride in Joe for finding it in him to listen and then swaying towards belief; pride in both of them and in the unique bond that they shared.

It was the one thing Houghton had forgotten – or, at least, had severely underestimated:

His boys.

He'd had the same thought many times in his life before – and now he took a moment to indulge in it again. His sons were even closer than any twins who had shared the same womb.

Even complete strangers had commented on their bond. More than once he'd been told it was strange that they looked so unalike because, surely, they _had_ to be twins. And that always made him smile.

Yes, they were unalike – both in looks and personality. But they were the sun and the moon; day and night; turbulence and calm; instinct and logic. There couldn't be one without the other.

His boys.

Fenton closed his eyes as he felt tears well in them. His boys weren't his alone – and he wasn't solely responsible for them being the boys that they were, or the men they were rapidly growing into.

Though Joe shared Laura's looks and her more apparent personality traits, Frank had a lot of his mother in him too. A lot of the time, the similarity was in what he _didn't _do or say. It was a calm smile; a look of fond indulgence; an understated authority that could convey so much without ever the need for words. It was in his high intelligence – so often underestimated in his wife who, more often than not, preferred to remain in the background. It was in his profound compassion.

And they shared an identical smile.

He swallowed heavily, almost on the verge of losing complete control as he thought about how Laura had helped to shape them both – not his boys, but _their _boys – and he ruthlessly blinked his tears away.

As his vision cleared, he saw Frank lunge out of his chair; falling into a crouch alongside Joe. He put a brotherly arm around the weeping boy's shoulders and, miraculously, it wasn't shrugged away.

Joe fell forwards, burying his face in his arms and Frank stayed where he was – in what looked to be an incredibly uncomfortable position.

Again, Fenton was reminded of Laura: of how she would sit and let her arm or her leg go to sleep – even to the point of pins-and-needles, or actual physical pain – if one of her boys (and he included himself in that group) was in need of her comfort.

He had to swallow again – this time to fight back a sob. He needed to compose himself – because if his son's became aware of his impending emotional breakdown, then he might well undo all of the good work Frank had done.

Forcing a smile through his still lingering tears, Fenton did the only thing he could think of; the only thing that felt right. Closing the distance between him and the table in just a few short strides, he usurped Con of his position behind the boys and then gently put his arms around them both.

And Con Riley stood in the corner of the Interview Room, feeling distinctly out of place; like an eavesdropper on a moment he had no right to be privy to. But Joe was technically still under arrest, so he couldn't even quietly slip away.

* * *

The moment couldn't last forever and it was Fenton who broke it.

Having witnessed what he would have thought to be impossible – a step forwards of any description, let alone one of such magnitude – everything had felt so right that he made the mistake of severely underestimating exactly what Houghton had done to Joe; the depth of the 'conditioning' he had subjected the boy to.

Feeling somewhat at peace and daring to believe that the nightmare might be put behind them, he said: "How about we all get out of here?" He didn't even make reference to 'home' for fear of how it might be received. But he'd said enough; he'd said too much. And he realised that he just should have savoured the moment – and let Frank continue doing whatever it was that was working so well.

But it was too late to take back those words.

Joe sat up so suddenly that Frank was sent sprawling back onto the floor and Fenton had to move quickly to avoid being butted in the face by the back of Joe's head.

"No!" Joe's reaction was devastating to everyone else in the room – even Con, who let out an inadvertent sigh of disappointment. They all clearly believed that they had made some progress. But it seemed like that was not the case.

Frank wasn't about to be deterred. He afforded a glance towards his father: _'follow my lead.' _And he grasped Joe by the shoulders.

"What, Joe?" he demanded, forcing the younger boy to look at him. "You were listening to me. You were listening to my logic." He quirked a half-smile; hiding how much it pained him to do so. "You hate my logic. You normally make fun of my logic – and you argue that it's never better than instinct." He turned instantly serious again: "So listen to your instinct now – and listen to my logic. Joe, whatever's happened, you _know_ that I would _never_ lie to you."

"I… It…" Joe struggled to force his words out and tremors shuddered through his body, as he fought against the desperate sobs threatening to engulf him. "It… it wasn't… sup… supposed to… be this… this hard…"

* * *

Frank felt a sudden anger rise up through him. It wasn't directed at Joe. It wasn't directed at his dad. It wasn't even directed at Graham Houghton. It was directed solely at the situation – and he didn't even try to rein that anger in.

They had been making progress and he wasn't about to blow it now.

He looked up at his dad and he knew his dark eyes were blazing fury; he could feel it in the rage that coursed though him – something that most people would consider completely uncharacteristic. But it was a beast he had long lived with and long since learned to control. He saw it reflected back at him, via his dad's shocked expression. He didn't care.

Things were going to start happening and they were going to start happening _now_ – before they all went into complete meltdown.

"Tell me we can go," he asked of his father, in a voice that was deceptively controlled. "All of us."

Fenton nodded. He understood where Frank was coming from. For a boy who kept his emotions mostly held carefully in check; when he let them go, he let them go with a vengeance. And, if he didn't have this anger, then all he'd have left would be inconsolable grief.

That wouldn't help any of them. This might.

"Joe's free to go," he confirmed. "The Chief said there are no charges to answer." He spared a glance towards Con and the young cop smiled in utter relief. Then, trusting Fenton to have accurately relayed the Chief's words, he left the room.

But the effect those same words had on Joe was hardly reassuring. The tormented boy had his palms clasped together and they were clamped firmly between his thighs. "No," he moaned, softly. "It isn't right."

He bowed his head and tried to curl in on himself.

Frank didn't let him. Now he could use his rage to the good. Now he could force an invaluable point home. And, dammit, if that's what it took…

"Do you trust Chief Collig?" He suddenly demanded – but then didn't even wait for a reply: "Do you think he's a good cop? Do you think he's honest? Do you think he'd fabricate evidence if he didn't like what the real evidence was showing him?" Again, he'd resorted to yelling, but he didn't care. He was relentless: "Do you, Joe? And what about Con? Do you think he's been fabricating evidence too? Do you think they'd hide the truth, if they didn't like what it told them? Is that what you think of the Bayport PD?"

"No… No, I…" Joe was confused; not sure which question he was supposed to be answering. Seeing Frank like this – so out of control and, thus, out of character – scared him. But, if there was such a thing, it was a good kind of scared.

His brother, he suddenly realised, really believed in him. And through the screams that continued to echo in his head; through the nightmare images he wasn't sure he could believe any more; through the damning condemnations of his own father; that was the one constant:

Not a condemnatory word had ever passed his brother's lips; not a single accusation – not even one revealed only by his expression or his eyes. Frank believed in him.

Fresh tears filled his eyes, but they were tears of uncertainty; of hope.

"He told me…" Joe gasped, trying to make some sense of it all. "He said that I…"

Frank cut him off with just two words; two words delivered in a tone that broached absolutely no argument:

"He lied."

TBC


	51. Chapter 51

**As always, thanks for the incredible reviews,**

**Helen**

BLAME

Joe looked at Frank; looked deep into his serious brown eyes – which were so often guarded and unreadable. But now his normally inscrutable brother had let down his defences and was baring his soul.

He didn't need any words. Everything he was feeling was written clearly on his features and in those eyes – the windows to his soul.

And Joe read them with infinite ease; somehow drowning out the noise and the visions and the memories, both false and true.

His brother was pleading with him – was begging him to listen to reason; to hear what was being said to him and accept the facts for what they were; to do what he always did and listen to his own gut instinct.

But Joe had to shy away, because his gut instinct was the one thing he couldn't trust any more – and, in truth, those feelings were threatening to tear him in two:

_Trust Frank – _That one was a given. It wasn't even an instinct. It was a fundamental truth to him: as true as the sun rising in the morning.

But now that simple fact was marred by a conflicting shadow: _She must have justice. She needs to have her killer punished. _

That was also beyond doubt – and it wasn't simply because of everything he had been put through. His belief in – and need for – justice was an inherent part of who he was. It was why he was so keen to follow in his father's footsteps and become a Private Investigator; and why he, along with Frank, was becoming so good at it.

If he couldn't get justice for his mother, who deserved it more than anyone in the world, then everything he believed in was for nothing.

It had all seemed so easy: a confession, jail and then the death sentence.

But now his absolute belief in his own guilt had wavered and it left him feeling somehow hollow. This wasn't the way things were supposed to go; his mother _had_ to have justice.

As if sensing his turmoil – as he most probably had – Frank grasped his shoulder and gripped it tight. The intense brown gaze once again sought out the depths of his soul.

Doing the only thing he could, Joe put his trust in his brother and laid it bare for him.

"Mom…" He tried to speak from his heart, but his voice was small and lost: not the voice of a teenager on the verge of becoming a man; but the voice of a frightened and vulnerable child.

Unable to voice his feelings, he just looked at Frank and he hid nothing from him – the stoic 'Joe Hardy reputation' be damned. This was the one thing holding him back; the one thing he couldn't get past.

His mother's death had devastated him; his possible culpability was still on the verge of destroying him.

Unbidden, the insidious voices crept back into his mind:

'_Mother-killer!' Matricide!"_

Frank's words were fading and Houghton's were beginning to re-emerge. Deep inside, he knew that he should be fighting – but he didn't know how.

He tried to bury his head in his hands, but he wasn't going to be allowed to retreat so easily. A strong hand grabbed his wrist and he raised his head; his eyes now filled with tears.

Frank was looking at him with deep sympathy and utter understanding. Then he smiled sadly:

"Mom's killer will pay, Joe," he promised. He knew his brother – and so knew that the issue would be eating him up inside. "Graham Houghton will pay for what he did to her."

* * *

Fenton watched as the drama unfolded – unsure of the part he was supposed to play. He had easily read Frank's previous 'follow my lead' message and had passively allowed himself to be led.

But, when Joe's face paled alarmingly, he swiftly stepped back into his role of father:

"Joe, Frank, I think it's time to take a break."

The younger boy finally tore his gaze away from his brother and squinted over at him – and Fenton knew he'd done the right thing in interrupting them. He'd already noticed how pale Joe was, but now he could also see the fine sheen of sweat on his face – and the way his eyes took a moment too long to fully focus on him.

In the heat of the moment; the stress of the situation; the intensity of the emotions – they had all forgotten that Joe had been released from hospital mere hours ago and was still clearly suffering the effects of a concussion.

Frank chose that moment to glance back at him – and he looked beyond irritated at the interruption. Fenton could understand – the progress his eldest had made was beyond his wildest expectations. But Joe wasn't holding up so well any more.

Frank would see that, too, if he could just take a half step back. But he had worked so hard to move forwards, Fenton could understand why he didn't want to succumb to even a slight hint of retreat.

"Joe, do you need a painkiller?" The words were for Frank's benefit as much as Joe's – but they didn't have the effect he'd been hoping for.

He'd been aiming for concern and support from his firstborn, but instead his words only prompted guilt and, as Frank's features dropped, Fenton easily read his expression. In spite of everything he'd achieved, he was feeling as though he had somehow failed Joe.

Fenton met Frank's eyes and shook his head, tightly. They couldn't afford Frank to descend into self-doubt and recrimination. What he had already achieved with Joe was beyond miraculous. He was, literally, Joe's lifeline – and it would only be counter productive if he was wrestling with totally misplaced emotions.

Silence had descended, following his intervention – and it hung thick and heavy in the air.

Loss of eye contact with Frank seemed to have made Joe shrink back in on himself; though his obvious pain might have also been a contributing factor.

Frank, for his part, had become subdued. Ever tuned to his brother's best interests, he sought to hide his festering guilt – but Fenton could see right through it. And he could also see that it would take Frank a few minutes to sort through his feelings and compose himself, lest he give something away to Joe.

So that left him.

He had to be assertive, but without coming across as being at all threatening. He had to find some way to take control and find direction for his boys.

It wouldn't be easy – but they were both now looking towards him; looking young and lost and both of them needing him to just be their dad.

He could do that.

In spite of everything, somewhere along the line he had found a resolve. He'd been given a chance and be damned if he wasn't going to take it.

He knew that he didn't deserve it, but he wasn't going to look that particular gift horse in the mouth; and he also knew he still had to tread very carefully.

He didn't try to over compensate for previous mistakes; nor did he attempt to exert any sort of authority. He didn't want to find out how that might be received.

Instead, striving for some semblance of normality, he merely said: "C'mon," and jerked his head towards the door.

Fenton could only dare to hope that they would follow him – because, if they didn't, he had no backup plan in action – as he threw the door of the Interview Room open and stepped out into the corridor.

* * *

Joe wasn't quite sure what was happening any more. Though his crippling guilt had started to fade, impressions of blame still lingered.

He wasn't at all sure he should be allowed to just walk out of the precinct scot-free; but the door was open and there was not a cop in sight. And then he felt a familiar arm wrap itself around his shoulders and guide him to his feet.

He was prepared to go with Frank because he trusted Frank – but that was about all he was prepared to deal with at that moment.

Numb, and having no memory of actually getting there, he somehow found himself in the back of his father's car – and he had a vague flashback of having tried to leap from that very same vehicle.

He sagged in his seat – hating the strange and random flashbacks that continued to assail him; especially as a nagging feeling kept reminding him that he couldn't really trust his memories any more.

Closing his eyes against his headache, which was bordering on incapacitating, Joe tried to switch off; to simply stop thinking. He had forsaken the offered painkillers – he was beyond confused as it was; he didn't need drugs to further degenerate his already fuzzy thinking.

The problem was that without said medication, the pain wouldn't let him rest; wouldn't give him a moments respite from his conflicting emotions. And with his eyes closed, his mind constantly threw up images – images that might have been memories, or might have been lies. He couldn't discern between the two any more and his aching head felt ready to explode.

With a heartfelt sigh, he cracked his eyes open – and then found himself staring at the back of his father's head.

Inexplicably, his stomach flipped over and his mouth went suddenly dry. Recognising the purely physical reaction for what it was – fear – Joe sought a reason for it. But that was nigh on impossible when he couldn't even be sure what, in his memory, was actually real. Maybe it was a residual effect of his interrogation. It had been pretty intense.

But when Frank had taken over, it had been even more intense – and he had no fear of his brother.

His breathing quickened. This was just wrong. His dad had been trying to help him; had been imploring him to remember; had tried to…

"_Joseph, the police are right outside. They have some questions for you."_

Joe gasped out loud as the conflicting memory suddenly bombarded him. He also remembered a voice set in stone, features carved out of granite, eyes colder than ice.

"_Can you tell us anything relevant? Did you see anybody acting suspiciously? Did you ever feel that you were being followed? Anything?"_

Joe couldn't tear his gaze away from his dad. His interrogation in the police station might not have been the first one he was subjected to and he felt fresh tears prickle in the corners of his eyes.

He also remembered a tone that was accusatory – and eyes that condemned.

Unconsciously, he pressed into the leather upholstery of the seat behind him. Confusion ravaged him, as he tried to discern whether he was reliving another false memory planted by Houghton – even though it had the vividness of reality.

All of his recent memories did – but he had no discernible way of knowing which of them were genuine.

TBC


	52. Chapter 52

**Sorry for the lengthy delay in updating, but I've been suffering from a dreadful bout of flu. It left me pretty much on my back for the last week or so. I'm still getting over it, but I have now found the energy to open my laptop! **

**Thanks so much for the reviews and I hope to catch up with my own reviewing very soon.**

**Helen**

BLAME

Frank was having a miniature crisis of his own: he couldn't believe that his personal crusade, to save Joe from Houghton, had verged on being detrimental to his brother's health.

He'd been so focussed on trying to make Joe believe the actual truth that he hadn't noticed any of the symptoms. It had taken his dad pretty much spelling it out for him before he noticed his obvious discomfort – and guilt had threatened to crash down on him.

But his dad had sent him a silent message and so he'd refocused his attention on his kid brother – the only person in the world who mattered at that moment. For Joe, even his own feelings had been put on hold.

Then they got into the car and Joe closed his eyes. Frank was finally allowed a moment to sort through his own feelings – and he slowly tried to reconcile to the fact that he had done nothing wrong.

Maybe he hadn't noticed when Joe began to feel unwell, but what he had achieved was worth far more than that – to all of them. And it had been demonstrated when his brother didn't put up even a hint of a protest when they left the precinct.

He just wished that Joe had accepted the painkiller; he didn't have to be a martyr.

Successfully putting his residual guilt to one side, Frank allowed himself the luxury of relaxing for a moment.

But a moment was all that he got to spare.

He didn't know how he could possibly sense it – not when everything was so shot to hell that he didn't even have an idea of what should be normal any more – but he suddenly knew something else, something unanticipated, was wrong with Joe.

He looked across at his brother and instantly took in his incredible tension – demonstrated by the way he seemed to be trying to push his entire body back through the seat behind him; and by his scarily intense gaze, which drilled through the back of his oblivious father's head.

Frank couldn't understand it. What had happened whilst he'd been wrestling with his own feelings? He was certain that no words had been exchanged. Plus, he genuinely felt as though they had made some real progress; progress beyond even their wildest dreams.

So what had gone wrong, during his few minutes of wool-gathering?

"Joe?" He kept his voice pitched deliberately low. From what he could see of his brother's profile, he looked incredibly tense – almost scared – and the last thing he wanted to do was startle him. When the tentative query elicited no response, he tried again a little louder: "Joe, what's wrong?"

Then Joe did turn to face him and Frank was devastated to see that he'd been right about him looking scared – and it was a desperate, helpless kind of scared. He'd never seen such a look on a person's face – and he prayed that he never would again.

His brother looked as though he had absolutely no hope left in the world.

"Joe…" Frank sought the right words to take that look away. More than anything, he needed to remove the utter despair from those expressive blue eyes. "I'm here for you, bro." He offered the only thing he had: himself. His strength, his belief, his support and his love – and he offered it all unconditionally. "Anything you need – anything – I'll be here for you, no matter what. We're going to do this together."

Joe closed his eyes then and Frank wanted to believe that something akin to relief flashed briefly across his features.

Frank allowed himself a purely selfish moment of self-congratulation – but then Joe's eyes opened again and he knew he'd been too premature in that reaction. He couldn't help but notice the way Joe's eyes flickered briefly towards their dad.

"I need to know, Frank," he pleaded. "I need to know what's real."

* * *

Frank bit back a sigh and hoped his dismay didn't show up on his features. It didn't take a genius to figure out that Joe's thoughts had gone beyond what he'd been through with Houghton.

Other memories were clearly emerging and, given his frequent glances towards their father, he must have been remembering what had happened at the hospital straight after the accident.

Frank had known that the ugly scene would have to be dealt with sooner or later. After all, thanks to Houghton – and even though Fenton had realised the error of his ways – Joe and his dad had never got the chance to clear the air between them.

But he'd been fervently hoping that any such conversation would come much later down the line – and when Joe had had plenty of time to deal with everything else.

However, fate clearly had other ideas.

Frank allowed the silence to stretch for a moment, as he tried to figure out the best way to respond. He knew that the timing was all wrong for Joe to actually confront those events – but, in his brother's best interests or not, he was about to add to the web of lies that already ran way too deep.

He also allowed himself a fleeting moment of purely indulgent fantasy, during which he toyed with the idea of letting Joe believe Houghton had been responsible for that memory too – and to let him have a guilt and recrimination free relationship with his dad.

Then he shoved the idea roughly away. Though it might seem easy – and even kind – he wasn't about to indulge in his own mind-games with Joe, however well intentioned they might be. He would offer only complete and utter honesty – and he would be there to pick up the pieces should there be any overly painful consequences.

The silence dragged on for a beat too long and so Frank summoned up an encouraging smile. He'd sworn himself to complete honesty and, because Joe hadn't actually mentioned their dad or 'that' conversation, he was able to answer with such: "We'll work through it, Joe. All of it. We just need to take it one step at a time."

* * *

Joe nodded faintly when Frank said those words – even though they did nothing to calm the raging confusion that threatened to overwhelm him.

Deep down, he could actually understand his brother's reasoning. There was so much for them to work through – but the priority had to be in undoing the damage Houghton had done. Even he could recognise that.

Through his pain and disorientation, he tried to cling onto the truth of Frank's words – the belief he had instilled in him back at the precinct. But, in spite of what his intellect was telling him, some residual guilt still lingered – and it was a constant battle not to give in to the words Houghton had incessantly thrown at him; the words he had spoken aloud.

So, yes, the rest could wait; the peripheral memories didn't have the potential to destroy him. At least, he didn't think they did.

He still vividly remembered the fear suddenly spiking through him when he looked at his dad – and that memory was deeply disturbing. He just didn't know why.

Striving to hold on to what was really important, Joe let his eyes drift shut. Houghton was there again; hovering just at the edge of his consciousness – and so Joe deliberately thought about different tyre tracks and the picture that had proved there was no pole.

It had become something of a mantra to him; a lifeline to his fragile hold on his sanity: There was no pole.

That simple fact – proved to him way beyond any reasonable doubt – turned every single word his captor had ever said to him into a lie.

And, mentally, he clung on to that with both hands.

* * *

Fenton was completely unaware of the minor drama unfolding between his sons. Even if he'd known that his own actions might be the cause of the latest crisis, he would not have intervened.

Frank had worked absolute miracles thus far – and he was going to put his utter faith in his eldest boy and had already vowed not to go blundering in where he only had the potential to do harm.

So he kept his eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead and tuned out the occasional muted conversation behind him.

But, though he seemed to be concentrating solely on his driving, his mind did still wander – and it opened up new and unpleasant trains of thought:

How would Joe react once he did get back to the house? Fenton couldn't help but remember how hard it had been for _him_ to even get out of the car.

How could they possibly watch him twenty-four/seven? And how could they believe him if he said he didn't need to be watched? Though he did have a sneaking suspicion Frank had that particular issue firmly in hand.

On a more sinister note, he also thought about Carl Stafford and the missing recording. How long would they be on tenterhooks, waiting for it to land on their doorstep? And should he actually tell the boys it even existed? He didn't see how them knowing could possibly be productive; but he didn't want them caught off-guard by it either.

Finally, he though about Laura – and about funeral arrangements which would need to be made. It wasn't a road he wanted to go down, but he had no choice.

He couldn't pinpoint exactly when the thought had first come to him, but he'd revisited it more than once – and it almost killed him each time he did: _she's lying in a mortuary drawer._

His beautiful, beloved wife was currently nothing more than a body on a slab. Though not a deeply spiritual person, his wife was church-going and God-fearing – and it was intrinsically wrong that she was being so neglected. How could she possibly be at peace?

Fenton stifled a sob, not wanting to alert the boys to his distress – and then, potentially, have to explain his thinking – but his hands curled around the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white.

He had to put it right. He had to lay Laura properly to rest.

But what was that going to do to Joe?

Words seemed to be getting through to him, but those words had only ever centred on what Houghton had done. Yes, Joe knew that his mother was dead – but it had never been the focus for him; had never been rudely thrust back into his reality.

A funeral would do exactly that – and the shock might undo everything they had achieved so far. Fenton knew that grief could play cruel tricks with the mind – and it might well send Joe spinning back into a destructive spiral of guilt.

Fenton felt caught between a rock and a hard place. He genuinely didn't know what to do – and he didn't want to turn to Frank for advice; didn't want to heap another burden onto his eldest son's already over-laden shoulders.

Maybe he would be able to act once he saw how Joe handled returning home; once he got a better impression of exactly what mental state he was in with regard to his mom – now he was trying to get used to the fact that he was blameless.

Then he suddenly realised it wasn't going to take long for him to form that impression, either.

Fenton eased the car to the side of the road and deliberately relaxed his muscles – loosening his death-grip on the steering wheel.

In a deceptively calm voice, that belied the pounding in his heart and the fear in his gut, he simply said: "We're here."

TBC


	53. Chapter 53

**Thanks to everyone who is sticking with this story and extra special thanks for the reviews.**

BLAME

Frank looked at Joe, trying to gauge his reaction to their arrival home. He well remembered his father's near-paralysis from just a few short days ago and wondered if he was to be in for a repeat performance.

Joe looked pensive and was making no move to get out of the car, but Frank could gauge no other reaction from him.

A few seconds passed and Frank was just trying to figure out the right words with which to break the silence, when Joe beat him to it: "What's it like?" he asked, softly.

Somewhat taken aback by the question, Frank could not immediately formulate a response. He knew exactly what his brother was asking; he just wasn't quite sure how to answer.

He let his eyes drift away from Joe and looked through the car window to where their house stood – the home they had spent their entire lives in. The mere sight of it prompted a flood of memories and he smiled faintly as he found the answer in his heart:

"It's still home, Joe," he said – even as he reconciled to that fact for himself. "It feels different – emptier – but it is still our home." And he could speak with utter conviction because he knew there were still more memories to be made in that house; memories which might not include their mother – but which she would somehow be able to share with them anyway.

He knew the sentiment had been received in the spirit he'd intended when Joe smiled minutely back at him.

Frank allowed himself one last glance at the house – and he did so just in time to see the front curtains twitch. It seemed that Aunt Gertrude had noticed their car pulling up and Frank knew she would be fussing and worrying – wondering whether it would be appropriate for her to come out and greet them.

Frank's heart went out to her. As far as he and Joe were concerned – and in spite of her often brusque manner – she always held their best intentions at heart. And, though there was no right or wrong way to act at a time such as this, she would be tearing herself apart trying to decide what would be best for them.

He could, at least, take that dilemma away from her.

Trying on another smile, Frank returned his attention to focus fully back on Joe: "Are you ready to go in?"

* * *

Somehow, without another word being exchanged, three car doors opened simultaneously. A moment later, the front door of the house swung open and Gertrude was standing there – hands clasped in front of her and her worry clearly evident on her features.

Nobody immediately acknowledged her.

Frank practically ran around the car so that he was by Joe's side as they approached the house. It came as no surprise to him when their father fell into step on the other side of him.

For a short while, Frank dared to believe that it was all going to go without a hitch but, as they neared the house, Joe's steps began to falter. Frank clasped a hand to his shoulder – a silent offering of support – but Joe slowed down even more and his breathing began to sound decidedly laboured.

Behind his brother's back, Frank met his dad's eyes and saw his own concerns reflected back at him. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea; maybe it was too soon. But where else were they supposed to go?

The look exchanged between them wasn't only full of concern. It was also filled with despair and helplessness. What were they supposed to do now?

And then salvation came from the most unlikely source.

As Joe's footsteps faltered almost to a complete stop, Gertrude rushed forwards; her arms outstretched in welcome.

"Joseph, it's so good to have you home!" And her slight frame caught the strapping teen in a fierce hug.

Frank sucked in a breath. _Joseph_ – how he hated to hear his brother called by his full name. But nor could he admonish his Aunt for using it. It was how she always addressed Joe. It was normal – though he couldn't help but think she'd be the only person allowed to use his full name from now on.

Then he waited on tenterhooks to see how the display of affection would be received.

Joe seemed taken aback and he returned the hug in a somewhat perfunctory manner. It was as though he didn't know how to react – and Frank bit back a smile. Aunt Gertrude could often have that effect on people.

"I've got vegetable soup on the stove. It won't take a minute to heat up and I'm sure you must all be famished." Releasing Joe, Gertrude headed in through the front door. Bizarrely, it seemed to have a positive effect on Joe and he meekly followed – not venturing a single word of protest.

Before he could really process what had happened, Frank found himself in their kitchen with a steaming bowl of homemade soup before him.

Silently, he applauded his Aunt. She'd barely given Joe a moment to wonder about how hard it might be to go back into the house now that their mom was no longer with them.

But, welcome though the respite was, it was always bound to be brief.

Joe stirred listlessly at his soup – he even took a sip or two, under his Aunt's not-so-subtle scrutiny – but, after only a few minutes, he laid his spoon down.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, keeping his eyes downcast. "I've a… I have a headache. I think I might go for a lie down…"

He didn't even wait to be acknowledged, but practically fled from the kitchen table. Frank was less than a step behind him.

* * *

Joe flung himself down onto his bed and threw one arm across his eyes. Multitudes of emotions were assailing him and he didn't have a clue as to how to start sorting through them.

It crippled him that nothing had changed; that they could all sit around blithely eating soup as though his mom might walk through the door at any moment.

His mom was never coming back.

Grief hit him then, with the force of a sledgehammer – and he began to sob. Hoarse, braying sobs torn from the very depths of his soul. It had nothing to do with Houghton; nothing to do with blame or recrimination. It was mere reaction to the stark fact that his mom was dead.

Joe rolled onto his side and curled up into a ball. The pain of grief was overwhelming and it battered at his defences; brought memories to the fore that he couldn't fight against.

Houghton's 'truths' merged back towards reality and he felt the crushing weight of culpability descend on him.

"I'm sorry!" he gasped. "Mom, I'm so sorry!"

_There was no pole._

It had been his mantra – his lifeline – and, unbidden, it slammed into the forefront of his mind.

Joe scrubbed the heels of his hands across his eyes. His confusion was overwhelming – but one simple fact stood out stark and clear in his mind: his mom was dead.

Fresh sobs sought an escape, but he couldn't draw breath. And he hadn't been lying about his headache; it felt on the verge of killing him.

Then he felt a strong hand grasp his shoulder and pull him out of the foetal position he'd curled into. He was eased upright and then a pill was pressed into his hand.

"Take it, Joe." It was always bound to be Frank's voice – but Joe took comfort from it anyway. A plastic cup was put into his free hand. "For the pain."

Joe nodded – and even that action sent fresh agony spiking through his skull. He swallowed the Tylenol and washed it down with water but, to his dismay, more tears leaked from his eyes.

There was no pole. He was blameless. He needed to get over this weakness and let them all get on with their lives. Frank needed to grieve, too – and not have to sit around babysitting him.

"Go," he muttered, thickly. "I'll be okay."

But even as he said those words, he wondered as to the truth of them. Memories were fuzzy – but he did remember the most God-awful, terrifying nightmares. Though tiredness – exacerbated by the drugs – was on the verge of incapacitating him, he was afraid to sleep.

Then his lifeline was there. Not his mantra – there was no pole – but his real lifeline. His brother. He heard muttered words: "Go? Not an option, kiddo."

And then strong arms wrapped themselves around him and then held him tight and he could hear further soft murmurs of reassurance – even if he never actually heard the words.

Finally feeling safe, Joe drifted towards sleep.

* * *

Frank's back ached, but he didn't care. His shoulder was numb and he was uncomfortable beyond belief but it didn't matter.

What mattered was that Joe was sleeping – and he appeared to be sleeping peacefully.

Frank would live with any amount of discomfort for that.

Unable to sleep himself – and unable to even fetch a book to read to pass the time – Frank allowed his mind to wander.

He thought about his mom – invoking only happy memories – and a smile settled on his lips. Of course, he still needed his own time to grieve; to allow himself a huge outpouring of emotion which he had, thus far, denied himself. His own dark time could wait and when that time did come, his grieving would be done in private – and certainly not when Joe was clinging to him as though he was the only solid thing he had left in the world.

Sitting on the edge of Joe's bed, with his feet on the floor, Frank was achingly uncomfortable – and, as good as his intentions were, he knew he couldn't remain in that position for too long. And he had no intention of going anywhere.

Toeing off his loafers – and absurdly thankful for his choice of footwear that morning – he began to move slowly and carefully; barely shifting a fraction of an inch at a time. He managed to lift his feet up onto the bed and then rested more comfortably back against the headboard. Joe didn't even stir.

Knowing, from previous experience when his brother had been hurt, he wouldn't sleep very soundly – and would be awake the instant Joe needed him – Frank gave in to his own crushing tiredness and allowed himself to drift into a light sleep.

* * *

Fenton paused outside the door to Joe's room – knowing without a doubt that both of his sons would be in there. His hand rested lightly on the door handle, as he listened intently for a moment – not wanting to barge in and interrupt any potentially intense conversation they might be having.

He could hear nothing and so, with the lightest of knocks, he eased the door silently open; just far enough to poke his head into the room. The sight which greeted his eyes had him instantly withdrawing again – and, when he did so, there was a reminiscent smile on his lips.

It was like his boys had reverted back to childhood. From a very early age whenever one of them had been hurt, or sick, or scared, or just in need of the other for whatever reason, they would always take refuge in one or the others' rooms – often falling asleep side by side and drawing strength and comfort from one another to help keep the nightmares at bay.

As Fenton closed the door again, he leant his head against it just for a brief moment – deeply thankful for the closeness his boys shared. He knew that they wouldn't make it through this otherwise.

Sighing – and with one last, lingering look at the closed door – Fenton turned and headed back down the stairs. Gertrude, he knew, wanted to talk to him. It had been obvious in the way she had kept looking at him as she cleared away the lunch dishes – and so Fenton had unashamedly fled, citing the need to talk to Frank.

Now though, he had no excuse to further put off what would undoubtedly be an uncomfortable conversation. His sister wasn't one to mince her words – and even he could recognise there were some things that he needed to have said to him; or else he would continue to hold them in denial forever.

TBC


	54. Chapter 54

**Thanks for the reviews.**

BLAME

Fenton was feeling more than a little sheepish as he walked back into the kitchen and found Gertrude sitting at the table, with a pot of tea in front of her.

Feeling somewhat abashed – he hadn't been overly subtle when making his escape from her – he pulled out a chair and sat alongside her.

"The boys are sleeping," he said; not bothering to offer an apology he knew Gertrude didn't need.

"It's the best thing for them," Gertrude answered, eying Fenton critically: "And probably for you, too."

Fenton looked back at her, askance. Was she really giving him an out from a conversation she must have known he didn't want to have? Maybe it was her own grief making her act uncharacteristically – but Fenton didn't question her reasons too deeply. He gratefully took the escape he'd been given and got to his feet.

"I think you're right," he agreed, heading towards the door. But then Gertrude's voice stopped him in his tracks:

"Real sleep, Fenton. In your own bed."

He stood without moving for a long moment – and then his head dropped. He should have known that his sister wasn't going soft on him. Instead, she had neatly trapped him and raised one of those subjects he was so loathe to talk about.

It was clear Gertrude knew that he hadn't been able to walk through the door of the bedroom he and Laura had shared. Just the thought of doing so spiked agony through his heart and he knew he didn't have the strength – physically or emotionally – to overcome this barrier.

Already he'd thought about how big the bed would feel without Laura in it next to him; how vast, empty and cold it would be. And so much of his beloved wife would still be in their room: her nightgown on the pillow; her beauty creams on the nightstand; her jewellery on the dresser. And the scent of her would still linger behind that closed door.

He couldn't go in there – and he knew that his sister was fully aware of the fact.

Defeated, he returned to the kitchen table and sat down again. There was a cup of tea already waiting for him and he smiled ruefully at Gertrude. She had known all along that she would win this particular battle – but she didn't gloat. There wasn't even a hint of triumph in her demeanour, but she merely laid her hand on Fenton's forearm.

"I know how much you miss her, Fen," she said, with infinite compassion. "But you have to be strong. Frank's so busy taking care of Joseph, but who's taking care of him? It's up to you to hold this family together."

Fenton nodded faintly – deep down recognising the wisdom of her words. He'd marvelled at how Frank had performed miracles in getting through to Joe, but had barely spared a thought as to the toll it would be taking on his eldest.

His ever-present guilt found a new direction. Now he had failed both of his sons.

"For goodness sake, Fenton, stop beating yourself up," Gertrude snapped, easily reading her brother. She knew him better than anyone – except for Laura, of course. "Stop thinking about what you've done, or haven't done and start thinking about what you need to do."

He bowed his head, knowing how right she was. And what he needed to do was start making arrangements for his wife's funeral; to offer Frank strength and support in his unwavering task to take care of Joe; to make his own peace with Joe and start being a real father to him again; to try and put their nightmare behind them and take the first steps towards getting on with their lives.

Each task on its own seemed monumental. Combined, they felt impossible. Tears filled his eyes and he kept his head deliberately down. His boys were sleeping and he wouldn't disturb them – which left him with only one task he could take the first steps towards fulfilling. It was going to be hard, but he knew he wouldn't have to face it alone.

"Gert, will you help me?" he asked without shame. "Will you help me choose a dress for Laura?"

* * *

Fenton was sick to death of the crippling paralysis that took hold of him every time he thought of his now deceased wife; every time he had to take a simple step through a door. He was a PI, for God's sake. He used to be a cop.

And he'd faced men with guns, intent on killing him, with less pounding in his heart than he felt when he grasped the handle of his bedroom door.

'_Enough!'_ he silently admonished himself. _'It's time to stop making Frank do this all by himself. Imagine what Laura would say if she could see you now.'_

Fenton winced inwardly as that thought struck home; easily imagining his wife's disapproval. She could convey so much without the need for mere words. And now he could easily imagine the expression on her face; the look in her eyes.

From the moment they were born, to Laura, the boys had come first – unconditionally. And now it was up to him to continue her legacy.

"I'm sorry, honey," he murmured aloud – eliciting a strange look from Gertrude. But he ignored it and swung the door open, without another thought.

He walked in and looked around slowly, as though seeing everything for the first time. Then a genuine smile touched his lips. He remembered Sam saying something about Gertrude needing to air the house – and it was abundantly clear that his sister had had no compunction about coming into this room.

One small window was open, the curtains rippling lazily in the light breeze, bringing the fresh smell of cut grass wafting in. He'd been expecting mustiness and the chill of disuse, even though the room had only been unoccupied for a couple of days. The brightness shining in made it somehow easier.

Crossing to the bed, he paused to allow his fingers to brush over a silver-framed photograph on the nightstand; a photo of the four of them, taken when the boys were five and six years old. They all looked so happy. Fenton couldn't help but futilely wish for such innocent times again.

He stood staring at the picture, lost in the memory, but then Gertrude cleared her throat softly and he looked up. His sister was standing by the now open closest and she held a dress in her hands. It was one of Laura's favourites: simple, yet elegant and stylish in black and cream.

Fenton nodded in tacit approval, even as fresh tears misted his eyes.

That was the dress his wife would be buried in.

* * *

Frank awoke with a start; neck muscles instantly cramping in protest at the uncomfortable position he had slept in. He didn't have that usual moment of blessed ignorance, wondering what might have woken him. Instead, he instantly knew.

The only reason he would be awake was because of Joe.

Looking down at his kid brother, Frank inwardly winced when he saw the tear tracks on his face. He wanted to believe that the tears were remnants of Joe's expression of grief, just before he'd fallen asleep – but the painful truth seemed to be that, for once in his life, his presence alone wasn't enough to give complete comfort to the younger boy.

He stifled a sigh, biting down on the bitter disappointment he couldn't help but feel.

Then he heard Joe softly murmur: "I'm sorry."

Frank might have smiled in utter exasperation – it was so like Joe to offer an apology, even when he was utterly blameless – but his brother sounded so miserable, he wouldn't even consider making light of those words.

So he answered in the only way he could: "You've nothing to be sorry for."

But Joe was already moving – sitting up and pulling away from Frank's embrace. "I'm sorry I woke you," he clarified.

"You didn't," Frank lied, easily. And, though he didn't try and hinder Joe's movements in any way – the last thing he wanted to do was feel like he was trying to restrain him – he didn't release him completely; but kept a strong and supportive arm around his shoulders.

Thankfully, once he was upright, Joe didn't try to pull away any further – but he did keep his face averted from Frank's; another worrying indicator that his perceived guilt was still in very real danger of tearing him apart.

Before Frank could offer any reassuring words, Joe spoke again: "What time is it?"

Bemused that he hadn't even wondered at such a thing for himself, Frank glanced at the clock on the nightstand. "A little after nine," he answered, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice. They had been asleep for some hours. Or at least he had, a nasty little nagging voice in the back of his head pedantically pointed out.

He successfully ignored it. They had both needed the sleep and they had both gotten it. He had awoken the second Joe needed him.

But then, with residual and irrational guilt making him need to say something else – and trying to appeal to something he knew Joe loved – he added: "I'll bet Aunt Gertrude has kept dinner warm for us."

Finally Joe turned to look at him – but Frank instantly wished he hadn't. It wasn't the trademark grin – or even attempt at a grin – he'd been hoping to see. Instead, panic flashed in vibrant blue eyes. And their colour stood out all the more vividly against a face that had paled almost to translucence.

"Joe?" Frank felt his own panic flare. What the hell had just happened? Why would a seemingly innocuous comment about dinner provoke such an extreme reaction? What had he missed? "Joe!" When his brother flinched minutely at the volume of his voice, he forced himself to take a deep breath and then asked more calmly: "What's wrong, bro?"

And he was rewarded by his brother relaxing marginally against him; of the wild gaze stopping from flitting around the room, as though seeking an escape; of Joe finally looking at him and speaking in a low and tremulous voice: "I don't think… I don't want…" His look turned supplicating: "I can't go back down there."

"Why not?" Frank blurted the question out before he even considered how difficult the answer might be for his brother. But it was too late to take it back.

"Dad." The word was spoken on a sigh so soft as to be practically inaudible.

But Frank heard and he wanted to scream at the injustice of it all. Why did Joe have to remember this now? Why couldn't he be allowed to fight just one battle at a time? Why couldn't he just recover from what Houghton had done and truly believe in his own blamelessness before having to face what had happened before his abduction?

Helplessly, he looked at Joe. But his brother had drawn his knees up to his chest and laid his head on them – with his face turned away from Frank.

And Frank absolutely and honestly didn't know what to say.

TBC


	55. Chapter 55

**This is a bit of a shorter chapter – but I wanted to get something posted, because I'm going on my holidays on Wednesday. **

**Yes! I'm on my way to America for the first time in my life! Las Vegas, of all places (please see my profession on my profile to appreciate the irony of that destination – talk about a busman's holiday!). **

**The holiday wasn't booked when I started posting this – and then I hoped to have it finished before I went away. **

**So I am sorry that there will be a delay of at least two weeks before the next update.**

**Thanks to everyone for reading and reviewing.**

BLAME

Having chosen Laura's dress, Fenton sat down heavily on the bed. This really was too hard – and, without a doubt, he wouldn't have been able to get through it without Gertrude.

She was the one who opened Laura's jewellery case and lifted out a gold chain with a single emerald teardrop pendant. It had been his twentieth wedding anniversary gift to her – and he had delighted her with it just a few short months before.

When she showed him the necklace, he almost broke down again – but he bit his lip and clamped down on his grief; merely nodding tightly again.

"Gert," he said, without looking up at her. "If there's anything you want… Any keepsake… Any clothes, any jewellery…"

"Fen, you don't have to do this now…" Gertrude tried to intervene.

"Yes, I do," Fenton interrupted, sharply. "Because I don't know when I'll be able to do it again. I'll pick out a keepsake for the boys."

"And for you," Gertrude insisted.

Instead of immediately answering, Fenton merely took the necklace from her. He held it up to the light and watched the pendant swing idly; the sunlight catching it on every counter-swing.

"She always wore her pearls with that dress," he eventually murmured. And then he lay back and closed his eyes.

For once, he wasn't fighting back the teardrops; instead – lying on the bed he never though he'd be able to sleep on again – he clutched one close to his heart.

Gertrude waited for a full two minutes – making sure his breathing had evened out and that he was properly asleep – before leaving him alone.

* * *

Frank stared at the back of Joe's head and felt like a poor excuse of a brother. Joe needed him and yet he was sitting there like a spare part; struck dumb and feeling useless.

His mind raced and he thought of about a dozen ways with which he might break the silence – but as the moment dragged on and on, each excuse lost any pretence of feasibility.

He kept his arm firmly around his brother's shoulders; the only support he could offer. But he knew it was woefully inadequate.

Joe had brought up the subject of their dad and Frank had seemingly lost the ability to speak. What message did that give to the already traumatised boy? It could only be a negative one.

He opened his mouth. Even just speaking Joe's name would be better than this silence.

But his heart was in his mouth – after all, anything he said would be a direct influence on the future of his brother and his dad. The right thing would be the first step towards them rebuilding the solid relationship they had so recently shared; the mutual trust and respect that had been nurtured and earned by both parties; re-forging the bond which Frank had always taken for granted with him and his dad, but which he envied between Joe and their mom.

The wrong thing…

And it was too late for Frank to think about the consequences of saying the wrong thing – because it happened:

Joe shuddered and pulled away.

Breaking free, simply because Frank was too shocked to stop him, Joe slid to the end of the bed and then gripped the edges of it tightly.

"I need to shower," he mumbled, pushing himself shakily to his feet. His sleep hadn't really diminished his headache and he wondered when he was next due a painkiller – even as he recognised that it didn't really matter. Tylenol wasn't going to cure him.

Tylenol wasn't going to repair the rift in their family – the rift even Frank had shied away from when he'd tentatively tried to bring it up with him.

Nothing short of a miracle could help them now. And Joe was a long way removed from believing in miracles.

* * *

Frank watched in mortification as his brother retreated towards the bathroom. Joe's shoulders were slumped and his head was down. He looked the picture of despondency.

Frank knew he couldn't allow this to happen; couldn't let Joe go and lock himself in the bathroom when he was so clearly distraught. Anything might happen – and it would all be his fault.

Desperation finally let him find his voice and he called out: "Joe, wait!"

Thankfully, Joe stopped his slow progress, but he didn't turn around.

"What?" he asked, wearily.

"Joe, you know that dad was completely devastated, don't you?" he asked, frantically seeking some way to avert this newest crisis. But now he didn't have files and photos. He only had words. "You know that he wasn't even thinking; he was just reacting. What he said – what he did – it was because of his grief. You can understand that, right?"

His words did provoke a reaction, but it wasn't exactly the one he'd been hoping for.

Joe slowly turned around and finally met his eyes. The blue gaze was intense and penetrating – and somehow disturbing.

"You don't get it," Joe whispered. "Maybe I could understand – if I could remember." Confusion and frustration rose to dominance on his ever expressive features. "But I _can't_ remember, Frank. Or maybe I can! I don't know what's real, or what I was told was real…" He shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I don't even know what to think any more."

"Joe…" Frank could only breathe his name – finally beginning to grasp the utter magnitude of the damage done to his brother. And the realisation made him doubt himself all over again. He wasn't qualified to deal with this. Joe needed a professional: a therapist who specialised in this sort of thing. He didn't have any psychiatric credentials.

And there was still the very real danger that he might end up doing more harm than good.

But how could he turn his back? His kid brother was standing in the middle of the room, almost swaying on his feet through either pain or exhaustion or emotional distress. Frank had never, ever seen him looking so lost.

Deep down he realised that he had the one credential that really mattered. He was the Big Brother – and it was his job to make that look go away.

"Joe, do you trust me?" he asked, mentally crossing his fingers that there were some things – _one thing_ – Houghton would never be able to destroy.

The response wasn't as emphatic as he'd been hoping for, but Joe did open his eyes and nod faintly.

"Then I want you to trust me on one more thing," he pressed on. "Your gut instinct, Joe. You've trusted it almost as much as you've trusted me. What's it telling you now?" He looked at Joe intently, as his words seemed to pull the younger boy out of his stupor: "About dad," he hastily added, before they could delve into the dangerous realm in Joe's psyche as to what had happened to their mom.

"I…" Almost unconsciously, Joe moved back towards the bed. "It's confusing…"

"Instincts can't be confused, bro," Frank retorted – hoping that his logic, so often a source of infuriation to Joe, might provoke more of a reaction. "What do you feel?"

"It's wrong." Joe sat back down on the end of the bed. "What I remember… Or maybe remember…" He shook his head, on the verge of being lost to Houghton's games again.

"Joe!" Frank snapped – determined to keep his brother on track, yet deliberately maintaining a modicum of physical distance between them. The latter was hard; almost impossible. But he couldn't touch Joe – couldn't offer the comfort he felt he should. He steeled himself and repulsed his own instincts. Joe needed to do this by himself. "Don't remember. Don't think. Just tell me what you feel."

"He's broken," Joe whispered – somehow finding the way to let his heart take over; and then speaking from it. "She meant so much to us, but so much more to him. This is something even he can't make right."

As Frank, totally unconsciously, nodded in agreement; Joe came back to himself and looked away, suddenly self-conscious. He wasn't quite sure where those words had come from, or how – in the bigger scheme of things – they truly made him feel.

He felt a sudden, pressing need to be alone and he got back to his feet.

"I really need to take that shower," he mumbled.

For an instant, those softly spoken words barely registered with Frank. He was indulging in a rare moment of self-congratulation. Joe's heartfelt words about their dad had felt like one hell of a breakthrough.

But then Joe was gone and Frank couldn't even utter a word of protest; he was so shocked by the sudden departure. And he was left helplessly wondering if he had – as had been his very viable fear – only managed to do more harm than good.

TBC


	56. Chapter 56

**Hi, I'm back! Vegas was awesome! Out of this world! And I really did have the holiday of a lifetime!!!**

**Coming home – and going back to work – has brought me back down to earth, but hopefully the updates will get back on track now.**

**Thanks to everyone for reading and reviewing (and I'll catch up with my own reviewing just as soon as I get the time).**

BLAME

Frank sat on Joe's bed, thinking over what had just happened – and trying to recapture the optimism that briefly flared through him when Joe had spoken so candidly about their dad.

It had felt like a breakthrough – but now he wasn't so sure exactly what it was. Joe's voice had been flat and devoid of emotion when he'd reiterated his desire to take a shower; so Frank had absolutely no idea of how his brother was currently feeling.

He looked towards the closed bathroom door and trepidation began to crawl in his gut; his heart rate increasing as his feeling of unease escalated rapidly towards fear.

After the 'click' of the door closing, there had been no further sound from within the bathroom; no sound of running water, indicating Joe starting his craved for shower; no sound of movement whatsoever – and, to Frank, the silence from behind that door began to feel oppressive.

Joe's mental state was unbeknownst to him – and his kid brother was, potentially, in a very dark place emotionally. And now he was shut alone in a room that had countless means with which he might harm himself – or worse…

Frank shot to his feet. His trepidation, which had transformed into fear, had now become full blown panic. He didn't waste a second rattling on a door which his terror-spiked senses told him would be locked, but darted out into the hallway; racing towards his own bedroom and the connecting door which led to the bathroom they both shared.

He barrelled through the door with force – hoping that his momentum might break the somewhat flimsy lock, should Joe have had the foresight to engage that one as well. But the door opened with ridiculous ease and Frank almost fell into the bathroom – his progress only being halted when his legs connected solidly with the john.

It should have been a comedic moment – and one that could provide Joe with endless hours of teasing – but Frank saw no mirth in the situation. And, clearly, neither did Joe.

Startled blue eyes stared back at Frank and he inwardly cursed having scared his brother – even as he felt a profound sense of relief that his own worst fears hadn't been realised: There was no razor blade in Joe's hand; no hastily made noose fashioned from towels; no hairdryer plugged into the wall alongside a slowly filling bathtub.

Frank shook his head and sat down heavily on the john that had just bruised his shins. Either he had been wholly wrong about Joe's intentions, or he'd just delayed what had been about to transpire. He had to know which.

"Joe…" But he was interrupted before he could even ask.

"What's going on, Frank?" The younger boy sounded impossibly tired – and he looked at his brother with incomprehension.

"Joe…" Frank tried again – but still couldn't find the words to suggest his very real fear that Joe might be contemplating suicide.

In the past, people had speculated that the brothers shared a telepathic bond – and now Joe gave credence to that speculation:

He looked at the door Frank had burst through and then turned his eyes to the door that led to his own room: "I remembered what the nurse said." He alluded to her fears about his concussion – and the effects of the heat and steam. "I remembered what _you_ said – and I didn't lock it." His eyes were tragic. Betrayed. "Why did you think I would?"

Frank wondered how he could possibly answer such a question without compounding any damage he might have already done. He wished he'd listened to his original caution that he wasn't trained to deal with Joe after what he'd been through – but it was far too late for such a futile regret.

He couldn't keep Joe waiting for an answer; couldn't allow another lengthy silence to widen the gap growing between them. Joe was retreating into himself: it was clear in everything he said and did; in his subdued voice and muted expressions.

And it was up to Frank not to retreat in the other direction. It was up to him to go after Joe and bring him back.

He opted for the only thing he had – and the only thing his brother genuinely needed: the complete and utter truth:

"It was because I'm scared, Joe," he said; his voice raw with emotion that he didn't even try to hold back. It wasn't like him to bare his soul, but he had no choice – and he deliberately bit down on any nagging feeling of discomfort that his rare display provoked within him. Joe needed this – and nothing else mattered: "I'm scared that Houghton might somehow still win," he continued – keeping his eyes firmly locked on his brother. "I'm scared of what he did to you; of what he made you believe. I'm scared that it can never be properly undone. And I'm terrified of how he made you feel."

At least Joe was looking at him again – albeit through eyes that were impossibly wide and held more than a hint of desperate tears. "You can't… You can't know how I feel…" The actual words might have sounded like a denial – but they came out almost as a plea.

"No, I can't. And I won't ever pretend that I do," Frank answered, fervently. "But… when you were rescued…" This was the hard part – but Frank didn't even consider breaking eye contact with Joe. "I was there, Joe. I heard what you said and I saw what you did. What you tried to do…" He remembered a trembling hand reaching upwards; remembered his world going into slow motion; remembered his heart shattering. And he remembered feeling that his own life was over.

And, though it might be considered selfish, he never wanted to have to go through that again.

"I… I don't remember…" Joe whispered in response, but his eyes slid to the left – and Frank knew he was lying.

But he couldn't call him on it; couldn't become another even mildly condemnatory voice, when he was already battling against so many others.

He scrubbed one hand over his face, wincing as he felt the further growth of bristles and lamented the fact that he still hadn't found the time to shave. He'd learnt – with a lot of 'helpful' comments from Joe – that whiskers didn't suit him. And suddenly a profound sense of melancholy swept over him – even as he recognised how ridiculously petty it was, given the magnitude of the real problems they were facing – that he hadn't heard a single word of teasing from his kid brother over his recent lack of grooming.

Maybe it was that misplaced sadness, or the inappropriate sense of regret. Or maybe it was sheer desperation – because he didn't know how to get Joe to open up to him – but he blurted out his next words almost without thought. And certainly without considering their possible repercussions:

"You begged for him to kill you, Joe! And then you tried to do it yourself!"

If he thought Joe had looked pale at any time since his rescue, then it was nothing compared to the complete whiteness that swept over his brother's features as he heard those words. His skin looked virtually translucent, but it was his eyes that made Frank regret his outburst.

Joe's eyes were always vibrant – and he could read an emotion in them almost as easily as he could read any facial expression. But now they were dull and grey and all Frank could see in them was utter defeat.

"What do you want from me?" he asked, looking down at his hands. "I don't know… I just wanted to shower…"

"Then why didn't you?" Frank had intended to sound merely curious, but his own emotions still ran high and his words might have come out more harshly than they were intended.

When Joe bit his lip and turned away, he knew he'd hit a nerve.

"I…" Joe squeezed his eyes shut. Now, on top of everything else, he remembered a camera in the corner of his cell; remembered knowing he was being watched at all times; remembered being too embarrassed to even use the john in case they were watching him. And he remembered being forced to strip to his boxers in front of them. "I… I just wanted it to be over…" He slid to the floor and sat with his back leaning against the tub, burying his head in his hands. "I just wanted it to be over…"

"It _is_ over, Joe." Effortlessly, Frank slid into place alongside him. "And I've asked you to trust me over and over again – and you have." Suddenly inspired, he went for what might be considered a dirty tactic: "Now it's my turn. I trust you, Joe. I always have and I always will." He saw the inconsistency in his words and addressed it before Joe had the chance to call him on it – had he even noticed it: "I'm sorry I burst in on you, but I was just really scared. I was living in the past and not the present – or the future. I trust you, bro. So take your shower and I'll wait for you downstairs."

Joe rose slowly to his feet, nodding shakily as he did so. He still couldn't quite meet Frank's eyes, but the way he toyed with the hem of his shirt was message enough that all was not okay with him.

"Joe?" Frank prompted – and now he found the gentleness in his voice he'd been striving for before.

"I do remember what the nurse said – about the heat and the steam and everything…" He was on the verge of wringing his hands, knowing what he needed but not knowing quite how to ask for it.

Frank saved him the trouble of having to: "Then I'll wait right outside."

Joe looked up and their eyes met. Each one nodded at the other – a barely perceptible movement of their heads. Then Frank got to his feet and headed towards the door connected to Joe's room.

When he reached it, he turned back – and he saw Joe beginning to unbutton his shirt. His brother never looked back at him, but that didn't matter. Joe was getting ready for his shower.

And it was all about trust.

TBC


	57. Chapter 57

BLAME

Fenton didn't sleep for very long. Though from the day Laura had died he had done little more than catnap, his mind simply wouldn't allow him to rest. His dreams were filled with fragmented images which had no logic or order, but still had the power to cripple him with grief and devastate him with guilt – and his emotions soon won out over his exhaustion.

When he opened his eyes, the light in the room had changed: the gentle sunlight having faded to the soft grey of twilight and he knew that, again, he had barely slept for a couple of hours.

He lay where he was for a moment, letting full wakefulness come gradually and waiting for his mind to sharpen after the disjointedness of his subconscious thoughts.

After just a moment, he realised that his right hand was tightly clenched – so much so that his palm was clammy with sweat. Slowly, he relaxed his fingers and then smiled gently when he saw that he was still holding onto Laura's teardrop pendant. He moved to place it on the nightstand and then paused.

His wife and his sons smiled back at him from the silver-framed photograph – and Fenton nodded, gently draping the necklace over the corner of the frame. It would be the first thing he looked at every morning.

It felt like the first step towards closure – the last one which would be laying his wife to rest. And, though the step was a very small one, it was at least a movement in the right direction. It was moving on.

And now he had chosen that one precious thing that would forever be Laura, it was time to find a similar talisman for his boys. Nothing maudlin or depressing; it didn't even have to hold any particularly special memory for either of them. Just something for them to keep – and to prompt them to smile each time they looked at it.

It sounded like such a simple task – but, looking around the room, Fenton quickly realised that it wasn't. In fact, it bordered on impossible. There were so many material things; so many oh-so-precious memories. How was he supposed to choose the right one? The one that would provoke only happy memories and not send them – most especially Joe – spiralling back towards sadness.

With a sigh of defeat, he exited the bedroom. It was time to call on his sister for help again.

* * *

As he descended the stairs, Fenton wondered how he could possibly thank Gertrude for everything she'd already done – much less what he was still going to ask her to do.

She was definitely deserving of a sumptuous dinner in a fancy restaurant once all this was over. Unbeknownst to most people, his sister was something of a connoisseur, but she rarely got the chance to frequent the fine restaurants New York had to offer – so he was determined to take her to the very best; the cost be damned.

She deserved it.

Her support – and her help – had been invaluable to him. And now he was going to call on her once again. He could do that knowing, without a shadow of a doubt, that she would always step up to the plate for him.

'_She's the best big sister a guy could have'._ Fenton actually chuckled out loud as that thought crossed his mind. To know that he felt such fondness for Gertrude would shock pretty much everyone who knew him – and all of his friends who had ever met her. But, though they might have their differences at times – and they were nowhere near as close as Frank and Joe – she did have an absolute heart of gold.

And if she could help – no matter who you were – then she would.

He thought about where he might take Gertrude. He knew that 'Serafina' would appeal to her tastes – and she was too dignified to ogle the rich and famous said to dine there; whilst 'Gascogne' would appeal to her love of French cuisine.

And then he stopped, as sadness – his almost constant companion – crept up on him yet again.

He would never again have to referee between his wife and his sister when they all went out to dinner; wouldn't have to try and appease Laura when one of Gertrude's comments struck a little too close to home; wouldn't see the rare, mischievous glint enter Gertrude's eye as they teased one another; wouldn't see Laura pretend not to notice and act all indignant and outraged.

They were two extremely different women – and he loved them both. But what was more important to him was his knowledge of the fact that they both loved one another – in spite of them maybe never having demonstrated it too clearly.

As he reached the foot of the stairs, Fenton paused as he heard muted voices coming from the kitchen. He recognised his sister's voice, even though he couldn't quite make out the words. And then a man's voice responded: Sam.

"_Sam? Sam!"_ Realisation slammed into Fenton and he hurried his footsteps towards those voices. Sam would only have one reason for being there: he'd been seeking information on the whereabouts of Carl Stafford. Sam had to have news.

* * *

The sound of the shower running was immensely reassuring to Frank. He knew he'd played his ace-in-the-hole when he'd placed his trust in Joe. He just hoped it was enough.

Just a few short days ago, he would never have even dreamt of harbouring such doubt. But those days had gone and could never be returned to – they had gone on the day Laura Hardy had died.

Frank sucked in a breath and squeezed his eyes shut. As much as he'd loved his mom, as much as he missed her, now was not the time to break down; not the time to grieve – not yet.

Now was the time to be strong. But…

He felt a tear slip through his tightly closed eyes – and, with that first one, he actually felt the floodgates open.

Tears cascaded down Frank's cheeks as his own grief finally caught up with him – and caught up with a vengeance. He wrapped his arms around his stomach and collapsed over them, as emotions – so long held in check – finally forced their way to the surface.

He missed his mom. He missed her so much that it was physically painful – and she'd only been gone for a few days. How was he supposed to stand this pain for the rest of his life?

Frank rammed his fist into his mouth as his emotions threatened to totally overwhelm him. But he couldn't let go; couldn't let his grief overwhelm him. The logical part of his mind told him that.

He had to cry silently; had to be mindful of Joe being in the very next room; had to remember that their mom's death wasn't the only thing he had to contend with.

At that moment he cursed the logical part of his mind.

Biting down hard on his knuckle, Frank strove to get control of himself. He didn't have time for this; didn't have time for grieving.

More tears leaked out. How could he not grieve? His mom was dead.

His own recurring nightmare was her lifeless face looking back at him from a mortuary slab. He didn't think he'd ever be able to close his eyes again without being forced to relive that moment.

Suddenly there was a crash and a shout from the bathroom – and Frank was on his feet in an instant. He burst through the unlocked door without bothering to knock and without apology.

A dozen scenarios flashed through his head: from an accident, to Joe trying to hurt himself, to an unknown assailant – Stafford – somehow getting into their house. So he thought he was ready for anything.

But he wasn't.

He wasn't prepared for the sight of the shower curtain half torn from the railing, even though there was no-one else in the room. Wasn't prepared to see Joe cowering in the corner of the tub; his eyes wide and vacant – and fixed on the bright, fluorescent light tube shining above his head.

"Joe? Joe!" Frank tried to pull the torn plastic of the shower curtain away from his brother's shivering, naked form.

Joe's only response was to shrink back against the side of the tub; but his eyes didn't focus – and he held onto the shower curtain like a lifeline.

"Joe!"

When shouting at his brother elicited no response, Frank did the only other thing he could think of: he quickly crossed back over to the door and flicked the light off. The light from the bedroom still provided sufficient illumination.

Joe's breathing had been harsh and laboured in his ears and merely turning off the light did nothing to ease it – and Frank knew it was time for drastic action. It was the only thing he had left.

Ignoring the still-hot spray raining from the shower head, he stepped into the tub and crouched alongside his baby brother. He wanted to pull him into a hug, but was too scared as to how he might be received. But he still had his voice.

"What happened, kiddo?" he asked – successfully ignoring the fact that his own jeans quickly got soaked; he even resisted the urge to turn the shower off. Water conservation be damned – his brother's psyche was a whole lot more important.

"I closed my eyes…" Joe whispered – and he scrunched the plastic of the shower curtain in his hand. "I closed my eyes and then… I thought I'd wake up back there. I thought… I thought I _was _back there…Frank…"

"You're home, Joe." Frank didn't know what else he could say. But there was something he could do. He pulled a towel from the rail and draped it over Joe's shoulders. Easing his brother forwards, he wrapped it firmly around him.

Finally, Joe's death-grip on the shower curtain relaxed. Instead, he clutched at the towel – pulling it tightly around himself.

"I… I'm sorry…" he murmured, looking down.

Frank bit down a sigh of exasperation. He couldn't let Joe continue to beat up on himself like this – it could only be harmful to his recovery.

"Joe, you have to stop apologising," Frank tried to spell it out to him. "This is normal. A light, a noise… I don't know, maybe the most innocuous thing is going to cause a flashback. After what he did to you…"

"I guess." But he still didn't look up.

"No, not 'I guess'," Frank retorted – he had to find some way to get through to Joe; to drag him out of his depression, before it could take too firm a hold. "Nothing that happened was your fault. You get that, don't you?"

"There was no pole," he whispered his mantra; the only thing that had assuaged him from his guilt.

"You're right there was no pole," Frank growled in automatic response. Then Joe shivered and he realised that his own jeans were soaked right to the knees. Even the towel he'd so recently wrapped around Joe was sodden at the hem.

"C'mon," he said, easily pulling Joe to his feet. Belatedly, he took a moment to switch off the shower. "You hungry?" he added, striving to help Joe find some sense of normality.

"Hungry… Tired…" Joe confessed. "But I… I don't know which one I'm scared of the most…"

TBC


	58. Chapter 58

Seriously, everybody, thanks for the amazing reviews! And thanks, also, to the people still adding me to their favourites and alerts – even this far down the line. You all make my day. And I'm hoping it's not going to be another fifty chapters!!! But you never know. The story has kind of taken on a life of its own…

BLAME

Fenton burst into the kitchen, anxious for some good news for once – and his dramatic entrance startled both his sister and his partner. He smiled sheepishly and muttered an apology.

"Fenton, I'm sorry," Sam said as he shook his hand in greeting. "Gertrude said you were sleeping. I hope I didn't disturb you."

"You didn't," Fenton answered – and then wondered as to the truth of those words. He was habitually a light sleeper, so maybe the doorbell – or Sam knocking – had woken him and he just didn't fully register it. It didn't matter. He was awake and he wanted to hear what Sam had to say. "Did you..?"

"There's a pot of coffee on and I need to make a start on dinner," Gertrude interrupted, briskly. "I don't need you under my feet."

Fenton quirked a half-smile. That was his sister's not so subtle way of telling him that she didn't want to be a part of this conversation – even if it was only by overhearing it. And he couldn't really blame her. She shied away from his detective work and actively disapproved of the boys following so closely in his footsteps.

"We'll take our coffee into the lounge," he easily conceded, retrieving the now boiling pot and pouring two mugs. "You don't need to go to any trouble about dinner."

"Nonsense." Gertrude responded as he'd known she would, but she did pause in her fussing for a moment: "You all need to keep your strength up, Lord knows. And that includes you, Samuel Radley."

She turned her back on them then, returning to the sink to peel potatoes.

Fenton and Sam took it as their cue to leave and retired into the lounge. Even as they walked, Fenton asked the question burning in the forefront of his mind: "Any news on Stafford?"

Sam sighed and stared into his coffee for a moment.

"Sam?" he prompted.

"Have I ever told you how much I hate dealing with the feds?" Sam murmured, with more than a hint of bitterness in his tone.

And Fenton could sympathise one hundred per cent. As PIs they had both faced discrimination from various Law Enforcement agencies. They had both been victims of prejudice in the past: made to feel like second class citizens for not choosing careers in 'real' Law Enforcement, as some chose to see it. Fenton, at least, had his background in the NYPD – and that did earn him some respect. But Sam's background was military.

He shuddered to think of how Mason and Carr – most especially Thomas Carr – might have treated him.

"Did they give you anything?" he asked, softly.

"Yeah… I dunno, maybe…" Sam shook his head. It had been one hell of a day – but he knew his own drama was nothing compared to what this family was going through. "I got the run-around for a while, but eventually Agent Mason took my call." He grimaced, but didn't bother to mention the three hours he'd spent arguing with people as to where he'd got an FBI Agent's number – and the reason for his call.

"Sam!" Sympathetic or not, Fenton couldn't keep a rein on his impatience for a moment longer. "What did he tell you?"

"When I finally spoke to Mason, he was tracking down an unconfirmed sighting of Stafford in Chicago. He wasn't exactly accommodating," he added, sourly. "But he did say that he thought we were nuts, worrying about this. Apparently, this just isn't Stafford's MO. He's only ever the hired help – and nothing more. Once a job's done, it's done – even if it ends badly." He shrugged, not wanting to give kudos to the man but adding: "I guess that's why he's never been convicted."

"So he won't do anything with the tape?" Fenton asked, almost breathless with hope. This was a break that they both needed and fully deserved.

"The feds don't think so," Sam confirmed. "He's scot-free on this one and he won't do anything to jeopardise that. At least that's their opinion."

Fenton didn't want to put any stock in the opinions of Mason and Carr, but their theory did make sense. Carl Stafford was a professional – and a professional wouldn't risk his freedom for a revenge that wasn't even his.

He let out a sigh of utter and deep felt relief: "So the tape has gone."

Fenton felt almost overwhelmed by the fact. It wasn't just for Joe – that he would never be forced to see and hear his own confession – but it was also for him. No matter what the duress, he knew it would haunt him forever to hear his youngest son say such self-condemnatory words. He finally felt as though things were going right for him – but then Sam's voice threw ice water over his feel good feeling:

"It's not gone, Fenton. That tape is still out there."

"But Stafford won't use it."

"The feds don't think so – and I agree with them," Sam confirmed; though the last part was somewhat begrudging.

And for Fenton, at that moment in time, it was enough.

Their intense conversation was suddenly interrupted by a soft knock at the door. A moment later, the door opened and Gertrude poked her head in:

"Dinner will be ready in ten minutes. Do you think I should fetch the boys?"

Fenton remembered how he'd last seen them: asleep and both looking totally peaceful. It was a sight he'd never dreamed possible – and one he didn't want to be responsible for disturbing.

"No," he said. "Let them sleep."

"I'll just keep something warm for them, then." And the three of them went into the kitchen and sat down to dinner.

* * *

Frank hated how he was feeling. He hated seeing his kid brother looking so vulnerable; so vulnerable that he had admitted to being afraid. That wasn't Joe.

But he could only look at his brother – at the bruises previously hidden to him – and wonder as to how he could get his real brother back. He missed the Joe who would joke and wisecrack and who never seemed to take anything seriously.

Even after such a few short days, he missed him. And he was determined to get him back.

Joe sat on the bed; the towel wrapped around his waist and now Frank could see the full extent of his injuries: the bruises on his shoulder and on his feet. He remembered the last words Joe had said to him:

"_I don't know which one I'm scared of the most…"_

"What are you scared of, bro?" he asked, carefully. He had been so hoping that he'd done enough to make Joe feel safe, but those last faltering words had negated any such hope. Now he had to try to find what he'd missed – and fix it.

He knew his task wasn't going to be an easy one when his brother half-shrugged and offered nothing more than a sigh by way of answer.

"I know why you're scared to sleep," he said – still seeking some way to get Joe to open up to him. "I know how you're scared that, if you close your eyes, then you'll wake up back there. But you pretty much passed out on me before – and I want you to know that my shoulder's always going to be here, if that's what it takes."

His words didn't have the reassuring effect he'd hoped, as Joe blushed and tried to turn away. Frank couldn't miss the fine trembling that suddenly besieged his frame – and he dragged the duvet up to wrap around his brother's shoulders.

"Don't shut me out, Joe," he implored – but he did give his brother some distance and watched, helplessly, as Joe huddled even deeper into his duvet. "Can you tell me why you're scared to eat?"

Joe began to rock and it stabbed at Frank's heart to see such an outward demonstration of distress – but he could only firmly clench his fists and resist the urge to drag his brother into a hug. Given Joe's body language – and Frank could read that well – it was the last thing he needed.

So he merely cocked his head to one side – in the way he knew Joe hated; the way that suggested he was in analytical mode (Joe's words) – and waited.

His patience was swiftly rewarded – even if it wasn't quite what he'd been hoping for – as his brother finally spoke.

"Stop looking at me," Joe implored, sounding for all the world like a sullen teen – but conveying a desolation Frank couldn't take lightly.

"Then talk to me – please." He shifted subtly closer to the younger boy. That offer of a shoulder to lean on hadn't been made lightly.

"I… I knew he was drugging me…" Joe eventually said, still hugging warmth around himself and not looking at Frank. "I knew… But I ate the bread and I drank the water… He said… They said…" His eyes had been squeezed tightly shut – but suddenly they opened and burst into life. "I should have been stronger!"

"Joe, you have to stop that right now!" Frank couldn't keep the anger out of his voice. He'd already watched his brother attempt suicide once. Now they had got Joe back with them, it was all supposed to be uphill. And, with this latest minor setback – as with any other to come, he willingly took on the task of dragging them in that direction.

Houghton was never going to win.

He grasped Joe's shoulders – forcing him to turn towards him. "You. Are. Strong." He reinforced each word with a squeeze of Joe's shoulders – and he looked him firmly in the eyes.

Joe nodded faintly and Frank took it as a positive sign – then he grasped hold of the initiative and gave it full rein:

"Get dressed Joe and we'll get something to eat." His tone broached no argument – but somehow still maintained a certain gentleness. "I'll fix us both something to eat. How does that sound?"

"Auntie won't like that," Joe muttered – but he also shucked on a pair of boxers underneath the towel.

And Frank laughed out loud. He couldn't help it. It wasn't because Joe had said something particularly clever or witty – but it was because Joe had _tried._

He had reached down inside himself and found some semblance of his trademark humour and, to Frank, it represented a massive step forwards.

He honestly wouldn't have believed such a thing possible, so soon.

Half-turning away to give Joe some semblance of privacy while he dressed, Frank smiled to himself. This small amount of progress was beyond his wildest dreams – and he had to resist the urge to punch the air in triumph.

Striving to keep his expression neutral, he turned back just as Joe finished dressing – and then they exited the bedroom together.

"So, how does a grilled cheese sandwich sound?" Frank asked, as he preceded his brother down the stairs. Then he realised how badly he'd phrased his question and winced – expecting a corny and totally unfunny response from Joe. That was just his style.

When only silence was forthcoming, he was reminded – yet again – that Joe was a long way removed from being back to his old self.

"I know, I know, it doesn't sound like anything…" Frank tried to complete the joke himself – but then he trailed off as he reached the foot of the stairs and heard voices floating out of the kitchen.

He also heard Joe hitch in a breath – and then glanced back to see him standing stock still; one foot still hovering over the bottom stair.

Frank couldn't blame him for his sudden paralysis – he even felt it for himself. One of those voices had clearly belonged to their father.

"I'll bring something up to you, bro," he offered – even as he wondered if he'd be truly capable of leaving Joe alone long enough even to grill some cheese.

"No." Joe spoke the word, as he took the last incredibly difficult step which left him standing in the hallway. In spite of his trepidation, he knew he couldn't run away from this. He was tired of being afraid. "I'll have to face him sooner or later."

TBC


	59. Chapter 59

Sorry for the delay in updating. Sadly, Real Life has been demanding too much attention of late. Thanks to everyone who is reading and reviewing. You're the best.

BLAME

Frank looked at Joe, wondering if he should try and talk him out of the plan of action he seemed dead-set on taking. In spite of the bravado of his words, the younger boy was clearly terrified.

Whilst a part of him thought that it could only be healthy for Joe and his dad to finally talk about everything; a bigger part – the part that would always be essentially _Frank_ – was more concerned about Joe's feelings.

And protecting him from any further hurt.

Then his head cocked to one side, as he heard a third voice join those he had already heard. Something inside of him loosened – and he felt an almost selfish sense of relief.

Sam was in there, too.

He wanted to say as much to his brother; wanted to tell Joe just how much Sam had helped him during Joe's abduction; wanted to enthuse about how he'd helped Frank hold on to his optimism – and his sanity.

But he couldn't – because that would be admitting to his own weaknesses: his terror; his genuine belief that Joe might be killed; his lack of faith in his brother.

So Frank fixed a smile on his face and tried to ignore how good it made him feel, just knowing that Sam was there to cover his back – and he wondered how he could ever repay the man's strength and support; not that Sam would ever demand, or expect, such a payment. But he couldn't help but also hope that Sam would come through for him again, should the need arise.

"Frank? You're coming in too, right?" Joe's tremulous voice cut through his musings – and he almost literally kicked himself for wool-gathering at such a crucial time. Instead he did it mentally – and found his focus again.

"Hey, who else is going to fix you that sandwich?" It didn't matter that his words sounded fake, even to his own ears. Joe took them at face value.

"Auntie's in there, too. And you know she won't want you cooking – not even a grilled cheese." Joe smirked at Frank and there was something in his expression that almost broke Frank's heart.

It was a hint of mirth; a hint of teasing. It was like when they were kids and they didn't dare cross their Aunty for whatever reason. And Joe was daring him to cross her now – to walk into the kitchen and make him the promised sandwich.

It was like going back in time.

The moment was destined not to last – and it didn't: Sam suddenly barked out a harsh and bitter laugh.

And Joe froze.

"Sam… Sam's here, too…" he stammered; panic flashing in his eyes – even if he didn't know the reason behind it.

"Yes, Joe, he is," Frank responded, probably more harshly than he intended. Sam had been his rock – and he needed Joe to know that; but he needed to make him understand without revealing too many details. "He's been here a lot over the last few days. He's dad's partner – and he's being helping us. He helped us find you and bring you home." _And he helped me believe in you again,_ he silently added – but had more sense than to say those words aloud.

Joe nodded minutely and lowered his eyes. For a brief instant, Frank thought Joe might be about to back out – that the impending sense of potential disaster crawling in his gut might be stilled simply by them returning upstairs. He hoped it was so – because going into that room had too much scope to end badly.

But then Joe seemed to steel himself – drawing on his vast reserves of strength and character; both of which Frank knew he had in spades. Taking a deep breath, the younger boy grasped hold of the door handle and then opened the door.

* * *

Sam had been recounting his attempts to track down Mason and Carr in more detail – hence his outburst of loud and humourless laughter.

Then the door opened and the conversation ceased as abruptly as if each one of them had been struck suddenly dumb.

The last thing any of them expected to see was Joe walking through that door, with Frank following closely behind him. It seemed wrong – alien, somehow – that the ever protective older brother wasn't the first to enter.

Silence stretched and hung in the air; each passing second causing potentially irreversible damage to the already fractured relationship between Joe and his dad.

Sam wanted to break it, but knew it wasn't his place. Gertrude wanted to break it, but was afraid her sometimes acerbic manner might make her say the wrong thing. Frank wanted to break it, but didn't know how. And Fenton desperately wanted to break it – but as the seconds ticked over and the suffocating silence dragged on, it became harder and harder to find the words.

It was a moment that might have hung in time forever – but it was Joe himself who broke it. Unnerved by the silence, he raised his head – intending to seek out Frank and escape from this impossible situation. But he never even got the chance to turn around; because, as he looked up, his eyes collided with his dad's.

And they locked.

It was like hypnotism: both wanting to look away and both completely unable.

And they were both still struck totally dumb.

Then Fenton stood up, his chair sliding noiselessly across the linoleum floor as though not even the furniture wanted to break the tension in the air.

Still without speaking – without even blinking – he crossed to where Joe stood and he put his arms around him; enveloping him into the most heartfelt hug he had ever given anyone in his life before. He tried to convey his every emotion into that hug: his grief, his loss, his shame, his regret, his guilt. And his silent plea.

Finally, he found the words: "Joe, please…" he gasped. "Forgive me."

* * *

Frank held his breath – and he knew without looking that both Sam and Aunt Gertrude had done the same.

In his head he was both second-guessing and cursing himself for letting Joe walk into this so unprepared – but then his infernal logic forced him to accept that there was no possible way he could be prepared.

There was no logical way to deal with this. There was no book on 'how to deal with your dad blaming your brother for your mom's death.' There was no right or wrong way to behave.

So he could only watch, with bated breath – waiting for Joe to either accept the embrace, or flee.

And then Joe tensed even more. Frank wouldn't have thought it possible – his brother had been wound more tightly than a spring the moment they'd walked into the kitchen.

His breathing became rapid and his eyes squeezed tightly shut – and then he threw his arms around his father, holding him with as much force as he could muster.

Tears filled Frank's eyes. He understood. Even as a sliver of jealousy ran through him, he knew that this was what Joe needed even more than any comfort he could ever offer.

Joe needed to be exonerated by his dad – and that was what he was witnessing.

Maybe Sam and Gertrude looked away – awkward and embarrassed – but Frank couldn't. It was too important.

Both Fenton and Joe collapsed into the hug, falling against one another – both of them holding on to the other like a lifeline.

"I'm sorry… I'm sorry…"

Frank was close enough to hear Joe's whispered apology – and it broke his heart. In spite of everything, Joe was still carrying the weight of culpability and he didn't know how to make it go away. He just prayed that his dad did – or, he was forced to admit, whatever happened next might make things infinitely worse. And he would be powerless to stop it.

'_Make it right, dad,' _he silently urged. _'Make it okay. Please.'_

* * *

When Fenton heard the whispered apology, he felt guilt stab into him like a dagger. He'd already failed his son – what good was it to try and make it all right now?

It would have been easy for him to release Joe from the embrace – which now felt suddenly forced – and to retreat back into his own private cocoon of emotion; blaming it all on grief and loss.

But then he raised his head and met Frank's eyes. His firstborn looked back at him with steely determination on his features – but his eyes…

His eyes were haunted – lost – and Fenton couldn't ignore that look. It held more than pleading; more than fear; more than desperation. His eyes spoke to him:

'_Save my brother… Please, you have to save him.'_

He had never seen such a look in anyone's eyes before – and he hoped he would never see it again. It literally compelled him to act.

Taking a deep breath, Fenton took hold of Joe's shoulders and eased him gently back out of their embrace. Then he had to duck down in order to look properly at him.

"Son," he said – mightily relieved when scared and hesitant blue eyes flickered up to meet his. "You have nothing to be sorry for. Nothing."

When Joe tried to look away again, he released his firm grip on his arms and used one hand to gently cup Joe's face and turn it back towards him.

"I'm the one who needs to apologise," he continued, his right hand held tenderly against his son's cheek. He ignored the way Joe's eyes kept straying towards where Frank stood and tried to find the words to start repairing the damage he had done. Not knowing what else to do – and praying it would be enough – he spoke absolutely and truly from his heart: "Joe, I want to tell you how very, very sorry I am for the way I treated you at the hospital. The words I said – and the manner in which I said them – were utterly unforgivable."

He heard Frank hiss in a breath but, not knowing the reason behind it, chose to ignore it. He could only focus on Joe's eyes – now firmly locked with his – and the fresh hurt now lurking within their depths.

But he'd gone past the point of no return and so pressed on: "Son, I was wrong. I spoke in grief and anger and… and hatred," he confessed, feeling tears start to prickle behind his eyes. "But none of that was aimed at you. None of it – _never_."

Fenton sighed as he watched tears fill Joe's eyes – and it was a monumental battle to keep his own at bay. He felt like he was failing miserably at the most important task he had ever undertaken. But he had to keep trying because, otherwise, he would be failing Joe completely – and possibly destroying their relationship forever.

"You know, I would give anything – _anything_ – to turn back the clock and to never, ever have said those words. I keep wishing that I had my time over, so that I wouldn't have behaved so deplorably." His shoulders slumped and his hand dropped away from Joe's cheek. He felt as though it had no right to be there; trying to offer comfort to the son who he had so wronged. "But we both know that's impossible," he eventually sighed. "You can't turn back time – no matter how badly you want to. So all I have left is my sincere, deepest apology – and my hope that someday, somehow, you might find it in your generous heart to forgive the unforgivable." The tears broke past his defences and trickled down his cheeks. "Please, Joe. I'm sorry. More sorry than you could ever know."

And the room waited with bated breath to see how the boy would respond.

TBC


	60. Chapter 60

Thanks, as ever, for reading and reviewing.

BLAME

For Joe, everyone else in the room ceased to exist the moment he fell into his father's embrace. He hadn't realised how badly he'd needed the contact – this simple and most pure form of atonement.

And, when he was offered it, he wanted to hold onto it with both hands. But, as was his bane, there was still another stumbling block for him to overcome.

His heart both ached and soared when he heard the deep-felt apology and he wanted to accept it completely; to give forgiveness wholly and unconditionally – but he couldn't. There was still something he needed in return.

He looked into his father's tear ravaged face and felt a fresh guilt pierce his heart. His dad clearly needed exoneration from his sins as much as he did – and Joe wanted to give it. He wanted to be the instigator of a warm and forgiving embrace; wanted to say everything without resorting to mere words.

But mere words were all he had – because he had to explain; had to make his dad understand. It was going to be difficult and painful for both of them.

"I forgive you dad." He said the words that came easiest, first – words that came from his heart, because he _did_ forgive him. He understood pain and guilt and grief and confusion. He understood and so forgiveness came easily. The next part was going to be infinitely more difficult: "But I do need for you to forgive me, too."

"Joe, there is absolutely _nothing_…" The protest was outraged, but predictable.

"Please, dad! Hear me out." Joe simply had to do this – to try and clear his burden of guilt; to try and silence the maddening, conflicting voices in his head; to try and draw a clear line to separate Houghton's lies from reality. "You have to forgive me because… because I let you down."

"Joe…" Fenton tried to interrupt again – but was quickly forestalled. Not by Joe, but by Frank.

His eldest son took one step forwards and quietly said: "He asked you to listen, dad." His eyes betrayed his utter torment – and his dread of hearing what those words might be. But, as he always did, he took his stand firmly in Joe's corner.

"Sorry, son," Fenton murmured, addressing them both – but his eyes, again, seeking out Joe. His arms now hung uselessly at his side and he didn't quite know what to do with his hands. He wanted the physical contact with Joe, but was too afraid. Afraid of what his son's confession was going to be. Then he had no choice but to ask: "Why do you feel that you let me down?"

Joe squeezed his eyes shut. "It's hard," he confessed. "It's hard telling myself that what he said wasn't true; hard to remember what really happened." He shook his head and swallowed heavily, as emotion threatened to overwhelm. "But I _did _know Houghton was out there. I knew about the rules and I knew the reasons for them." He somehow found the strength to open his eyes and look his dad square in the face. "And I know that I was looking out for mom that day." His voice shook with emotion, but did not break. "And she died. And I am so, so sorry."

"Oh, Joe…" Fenton's heart broke in two and he reached out to offer his son another hopefully healing embrace – but was only left dismayed when Joe jerked away from him.

"Please!" Joe gasped, struggling to maintain some semblance of composure. "Please… This has nothing to do with Houghton. Nothing to do with what he made me…" He paused, swallowed and shot a fleeting glance towards Frank. In return, he received utter support and a sad smile of understanding. It gave him the strength to carry on: "Nothing to do with what he _tried_ to make me believe. It's about mom… It was _my_ watch and… and she died. And I'm sorry… But that's how I feel." He swallowed again and his eyes turned pleading. "Can you forgive me, dad? Please?"

"Oh, God." Fenton caught Joe in a crushing embrace. If he'd thought he'd poured his every emotion into their previous hug, he quickly knew he was gravely mistaken. This one went beyond thought, beyond emotion and it came from the depths of his very soul.

But he honestly didn't know what to say. Joe was never going to accept that there was nothing to forgive. His hesitant explanation was proof enough of that. But nor could Fenton simply acquiesce to his plea. Surely by offering forgiveness, he would also be implying blame – and he couldn't do that to Joe; not when he had come so far.

Fenton feared that whatever he said could only set Joe back in his thus-far somewhat miraculous recovery.

Inadvertently, his eyes sought out Frank – even as he inwardly hated himself for, yet again, turning to his already overburdened firstborn son for help. What he saw made him actually flinch away – but it also made him understand.

Frank looked haggard and as devastated as he felt at Joe's plea for forgiveness. But there was something else: there was a definite knowledge in Frank's eyes – knowledge brought about by his own personal experience.

And that was when it hit him. Joe was asking for nothing more than Fenton had ever asked of himself, or of his family, in the past: the numerous times when, through no fault of his own, one or both of his boys had been endangered – either during an investigation, or just in their day to day lives. He remembered Joe falling from a tree at the tender age of ten – and he remembered the irrational guilt he'd felt at not having been there to catch him.

Frank nodded at him – his misty eyes a clear indication that he was reliving his own memories. They all had those memories; all had those moments when they needed to be told they were forgiven – even though they had never even done anything wrong.

Fenton smiled through his tear laden eyes and kissed the top of Joe's head.

"I forgive you," he whispered into the blonde hair. "You did nothing wrong and I don't blame you at all. But I forgive you. Of course, I forgive you." Then he held Joe tightly as the boy cried against his chest.

* * *

Frank somehow found the strength to tear his eyes away from the poignant scene. His heart was racing and his eyes were heavy with tears – but he was also smiling from ear to ear; a smile so wide that it literally made his face hurt.

His dad and Joe were going to be okay. They were all going to be okay. The final obstacle had been overcome and Houghton had failed.

Now they could try and move on; could grieve together, as a family – and then try to move on. As a family.

Then Fenton looked up at him and Frank's smile faltered. There was something in his dad's eyes that didn't fit this moment of reconciliation and moving on. There was definite foreboding and more than a hint of fear.

"Dad?" he asked; his voice no more than a whisper, as he tried to figure out what he'd missed

But Fenton merely shook his head and held Joe even tighter.

Frank nodded faintly – understanding without the need for further words: whatever it was wouldn't be spoken of in front of Joe. But he couldn't help wondering what _it _might be – and how his dad might be able to let him know, when he still had absolutely no intention of leaving his brother's side.

A soft sigh from his right suddenly reminded Frank that the three of them weren't alone in the kitchen. He glanced over and tried to offer a reassuring smile towards his Aunt and Sam, but neither of them was looking at him.

Gertrude was looking down at her hands, which were clasped on the tabletop as though in prayer. Sam, with one arm wrapped comfortingly around her shoulders, was looking at her. They were both studiously avoiding looking at him, his dad or Joe – and Frank appreciated that.

They were offering as much privacy as they possibly could, without actually leaving the room – and thus, potentially, disrupting that essential moment between Joe and his dad.

Now it seemed they were beyond such outside intervention – and so Frank calmly crossed to where Sam sat.

"Is there something I need to know?" he asked, _sotto voce_.

Sam's only response was to gently pull his arm away from Gertrude and jerk his head towards the back door. Frank hesitated – hovered – his eyes straying back to where his dad held his still crying brother.

"Just a few seconds," Sam promised. And Frank nodded. Joe seemed to be okay with his dad – though 'okay' was a relative term – and if there was something he needed to know…

"Alright," he acquiesced. "Just a few seconds."

Then his eyes lit on Gertrude and he wondered how they could just leave her there when she looked so upset and pale and drawn. But, as ever, he had underestimated his Aunty – and she got to her feet, seeming to shake off her sadness and return to the formidable spinster Aunt he and Joe had grown up with.

She looked at Sam and Frank: "There are things I need to do." And then she exited towards the lounge.

* * *

They stood on the back doorstep, with the door pulled to – but not completely closed – behind them. That was as much quarter as Frank would give.

And his eyes never once left Joe, watching him through the window and barely giving Sam even a third of his full attention.

Joe still had his eyes tightly closed, tears seeping out from behind them nevertheless. Fenton still held him tightly and, Frank assumed from his dad's body language, continued to offer continual reassurances. And, as long as that status quo remained, then he could spare a few seconds to hear Sam out.

Then he could only listen in utter horror as Sam explained about Joe's recorded confession – and how Carl Stafford most likely had it in his possession. Sam hurriedly went on to recount his conversation with Special Agent Mason – and how Stafford would never be stupid enough to use the recording,

"No! You're wrong!" Frank couldn't help his outraged response. His logic was both his gift and his curse – and he had to speak his mind. It might cause immeasurable trauma, but he had to give voice to his fears: "Joe is the only one who can put him in that room; Joe is the only one who can nail him as Houghton's accomplice; Joe is the only one who can threaten his freedom and name him as his other kidnapper. Joe is the only one who can send him to prison." His eyes turned bleak: "And you've just told me how he's such a pro – and how he'll never get sent down over a loose end. Don't you think, now, Joe might be considered a loose end?"

"No, Frank, you're not hearing me." Sam shook his head. "Or rather, you're not hearing the feds. Stafford won't risk his freedom for someone else's fight. Just yesterday they were trying to track him down in Chicago. He's gone, Frank." And then he offered an assurance he could only pray was true: "Stafford's gone. He won't use the tape – not for Houghton. The feds are on his tail – he's got too much to lose."

And Frank looked in through the kitchen window, watching as his dad eased Joe into a chair.

He turned steely eyes on Sam:

"You'd better be right."

And then he walked back through the door.

He had a grilled cheese sandwich to make.

TBC


	61. Chapter 61

I must admit to being a little disappointed by the response to the last chapter – but I do understand that this has turned into something of a marathon fic and I know that's not to everyone's taste. I never foresaw 60+ chapters, or 100,000+ words when I started it. So a huge THANK YOU to everyone who has stuck with it – and extra special thanks to everyone who has reviewed, most especially epalladino and Shadow Cat 17 who I know are still with me. This isn't the last chapter, but I am almost done…

BLAME

Frank barely dared to look towards his dad and brother, as he prepared the promised sandwich for Joe. It was all going too well and he couldn't help but feel that there was bound to be another hurdle for them to overcome somewhere around the corner – it was just the way their lives had gone, of late.

But, when he did spare a brief glance, what he saw only made him smile. Joe was sitting at the kitchen table – his arms resting against the wooden surface and his eyes downcast. But his dad still had one arm around him – and Joe didn't try to shrug it away. He even offered a brief, shy smile.

And Frank's heart soared. Could it really all be over? The mood in the kitchen certainly suggested it might be.

Could Sam really be right about Stafford not using Joe's confession? Of the tape simply disappearing, so that Joe need never know it had ever existed?

To him – to all of them – that would be the perfect ending and he prayed that it would come to pass. They had to be due something going their way.

Thinking of Sam, Frank glanced around again. Something nagged at him and he felt like he owed the man an apology – or, at least, an explanation. But Sam was nowhere in sight – and Frank was left silently thankful for his dad's partner, who always seemed to know the right thing to do; the right thing to say; or even know when they just needed to be left alone.

It was a rare quality – but one which came easily to Sam.

And his Aunt Gertrude, too – Frank realised. She hadn't ventured back into the kitchen either. Not even when the smell of melting – actually of nigh on burning – cheese wafted through the house.

They both knew how hard this was for Joe – without him having them witness his breakdown. Joe might be only seventeen, but he had his pride. And, in normal circumstances, he would have been mortified for them to see him cry.

And, though these were far from normal circumstances, Frank could only appreciate their tact.

Now Joe wouldn't be too embarrassed to face them. Now Frank could safely believe that not only Joe, but he and his dad as well, would have that support structure behind them should they need it.

He pulled the almost-burnt sandwich from the grill and laid it in front of his brother.

"Sorry," he offered, with a shrug. Cooking really wasn't his forte.

He could have cried when both his dad and Joe – most especially Joe – let out a burst of laughter.

* * *

Those emotional minutes between Joe and Fenton proved to be a catharsis – not only for Joe, but for all of them. And slowly, they tried to get back on with their lives.

Frank never got the chance to apologise to Sam that night, for whatever sin had been nagging at him – because he didn't see Sam again for three days.

He spent those three days looking out for Joe – and trying to pretend that he wasn't; almost desperate to demonstrate that he wasn't hovering; that he trusted Joe implicitly and didn't have any problem with leaving him alone.

But he made sure he was downstairs at the crack of dawn to ensure he was the first one to get to the mail. Any package with Joe's name on it would be intercepted before it even reached him.

And his dad was always standing by his side when the mail landed on the mat.

Nothing came. They hadn't really expected it to. With Emily Hudson, it had taken a month for her enforced guilt to revisit her – but they weren't taking any chances. And it was a small task they could fulfil, without alerting Joe to what they were doing – or why they were doing it.

So three days passed with nothing more sinister than a utility bill being posted through their door.

Then, three days after Joe and Fenton made their peace, the day of Laura Hardy's funeral dawned.

* * *

Fenton was ready for his wife's funeral. He'd been made ready by his ever persistent sister, who had walked in on him as he stood immobilised in front of the closet. He'd been too afraid to open it – though 'afraid' might have been the wrong sentiment. He'd been lost in time, remembering his wife standing in front of those doors – and wondering how he could open them, without Laura standing by his side; either trying to select her own outfit or helping him select exactly which tie went with which shirt, went with which suit, for an important court date or other such 'dressed up' occasion.

Then Gertrude had flung the doors open.

"Let me take care of this, Fen," she'd said. "I'll take her clothes to Goodwill. Or I'll get them recycled. It's up to you."

"You can't just eradicate her from my life!" Fenton had reacted furiously. "You can't try to make her disappear!"

And Gertrude had cupped his face in her hands: "I'm not trying to do that. I'm trying to help you through this. You have to let go, Fenton. She's gone."

And he'd nodded slowly, tiredly. But he did ask his sister to wait until after the funeral, before donating her clothes to charity. He wouldn't remove Laura from his bedroom, from his house, from his life – not until he'd said goodbye.

He had smiled at Gertrude, as he finally understood how badly he needed some closure; how desperately he needed to grieve for his wife – something he'd barely had the chance to do, given everything which had transpired since her death.

He pulled Gertrude into a hug, silently apologising for his prior outburst – and also thanking her, because the mere words were never going to be enough.

As he embraced her, he also tried to draw on her strength; and to find his own inner strength – not only to be able to face the funeral, but to help his sons through it too.

* * *

In direct contrast to his dad, Frank wasn't prepared for the funeral at all. He wasn't prepared mentally, emotionally or even physically – the latter because he'd barely slept a wink since Joe had collapsed on him when they first brought him home.

The irony of his own form of sleep deprivation – albeit self-imposed – wasn't lost on him, but he couldn't help himself. He was trying so hard not to be overbearingly protective and there really was no need for him to sleep in Joe's room.

And Joe himself was trying hard to be stoic and strong – insisting that he was fine to be left alone. But that didn't stop Frank from making sure both of the doors to their adjoining bathroom were ajar.

With alarming frequency, a noise – either real or imagined – had him peeking through those doors to check on Joe. More often than not, he'd wound up sitting on the edge of Joe's bed – soothing him back towards sleep, or just calming him enough before whatever nightmare he was experiencing had the chance to wake him.

He sat like that for hours; always retreating back to his own room when Joe showed genuine signs of waking. But he'd always coincide his own 'awakening' with his brother's – and that was alongside ensuring he was the first one to get to the mail.

Frank didn't care that his eyes felt permanently gritty and heavy; didn't care that he looked like ten shades of hell.

Everything he did, he did for Joe – and the night before the funeral, his brother's nightmares were both frequent and fearsome.

Frank spent almost that entire night at Joe's bedside – and he never once closed his eyes. His only respite from his vigil was when the time came for the mailman to arrive. Even then, he only moved long enough to ensure that his dad was in place should a suspect package arrive – which would have been the cruellest of twists; but one he was almost expecting, given his knowledge of Houghton's mind games.

But, if anything did come, then Frank remained totally unaware of it as he returned to his brother's side.

On this day, he never even retreated back to his own room when Joe began to show the first signs of waking.

It was the day of their mother's funeral – and he knew Joe would need him.

* * *

Joe couldn't possibly be prepared for the funeral. He'd barely had time to process the fact that his mother was dead, before he'd been forced to descend into the nightmare Houghton had subjected him to.

Then he'd been left battling his own emotions: his confusion, his pain, his guilt and – ultimately – his exoneration of any wrongdoing. It had been a lot to take in – and too much for his overwrought mind to deal with.

He wanted to shut it all out, but he didn't know how. It didn't help that he knew how Frank was keeping vigil over him – no matter how hard he tried to hide the fact – and he tried hard not to succumb to the fresh guilt that such knowledge invoked in him.

Sleep did come to Joe, but only because his body demanded it – and any sleep he snatched was far from restful. Every time he closed his eyes, he was terrified he'd open them again only to see the steel bars of Houghton's cell. Every slight sound was amplified and he inwardly winced in anticipation of words – _mother killer! Matricide!_ – blaring at him over and over again.

It was easier when he was awake. When he was aware enough for coherent thought, he could hold onto everything positive: Frank's words and infernal logic – and his unwavering strength and support. It didn't matter that he knew his brother was still keeping a close eye on him – so long as he could tamp down on the guilt it threatened to invoke – because he knew, without a doubt, that if their roles had been reversed then he would have stuck to Frank like glue. The very fact that Frank was at least _trying _to give him some distance was enough.

Then there was his dad: his apology and, more importantly, his forgiveness. Joe didn't feel that he'd been particularly eloquent when he'd tried to relay the importance of that forgiveness. But his dad seemed to understand and had offered what he needed: complete and unconditional absolution.

It was something else to hold onto; something to help make him believe and to hold on to his sanity – but, as with his feelings for Frank, those things were only of use to him when he was awake.

The moment he fell asleep…

It was impossible for him to describe the nightmares; no matter how many times Frank asked the question of him – even if only with his eyes. They were a cacophony of tearing metal and breaking glass; of screams and shouts and relentless accusations; of a sea of faces all portraying different emotions: his mom, his dad, Frank, the Chief and Con. And Houghton with his sidekick, Carl.

There was pain in his nightmares – both physical and emotional – and he always awoke with tears on his cheeks and his heart pounding so violently that it felt like it might burst right out of his chest.

That last morning, it was worse than it had ever been before – and he'd snapped awake almost on the verge of hyperventilating. Not even pausing to wonder why Frank was at his bedside, when he'd previously gone to such lengths to hide his hovering, he reached out desperately to his brother.

He knew what day it was. He knew they were going to bury his mom. But he didn't know how he could possibly make it through this day.

TBC


	62. Chapter 62

I always feel the need to apologise when I go more than a week between updates – so I am very, very sorry; especially given the wonderful response to the last chapter. THANK YOU ALL!!! This chapter is a little longer – and I hope it proves to be worth the wait.

BLAME

All pretence was lost with Frank the moment that Joe gasped awake and practically lunged towards him. It didn't matter that his brother might be irritated by his perceived over-protectiveness; might see it as a sign of his own weakness; might even berate him for it.

He needed the contact as much as Joe did.

It lasted for mere minutes – even if those minutes felt like hours – but Frank simply had to break away.

It was inherent in him: _take care of Joe._

And he couldn't do that if he was on the verge of breaking down into tiny little pieces. He didn't suppress his grief – that would have been impossible – but he couldn't give full vent to his own feelings. His tears were both visible and genuine and there was an ache in his heart, but it was one which he successfully forced to one side; for now, at least.

It was easy, because he'd recently felt the exact same sentiment as he was experiencing now: _focus on the living._

His own utter devastation at the loss of his mom could – and would – wait.

_Focus on the living._

With that sole thought in mind, he grasped hold of Joe's shoulders – easing him ever so slightly away from him and then trying to look him in the eyes. But Joe's eyes kept flitting away.

"I won't pretend it's going to be easy, bro," he said, trying to hide his own deep grief, but trying harder to get Joe to simply look at him. "It won't. But I'll be there, Joe. We all will. It's going to be hard, but…"

He still held onto his brother's shoulders – and when those blue eyes did meet with his, he ensured that the bond wasn't broken.

So he almost felt Joe's next words: "I don't think I can do it… The f… funeral…"

Frank didn't even blink when he heard those stuttered words. His only reaction was for his fingers to curl ever so slightly more tightly into Joe's biceps – and he tried to school his features, so as not to betray the extreme emotions they invoked in him.

Sheer distress threatened to rob him of breath: how could he try and force Joe to do something he didn't want to, after everything he'd been through?

At the same time, panic set his pulse racing. If Joe couldn't go to the funeral, then how could he? He'd sworn a thousand times that he would look out for his brother; that he would be there for him. But how could he not go? How could he not say goodbye to his mom?

Desperation also warred within him, as he sought a solution that simply was not there. He would be forced to desert either his brother or him mom. How on Earth was he supposed to make such a choice?

And, underneath it all, was his ever-present grief – repressed, but threatening to break loose at any moment.

That moment was pushing ever closer to the surface – and it was getting harder and harder to force it back down.

He clenched his jaw, feeling the finest of trembles begin to run through him. Unconsciously, his hands tightened even more.

"Frank…" Joe gasped – maybe in pain, maybe in empathy.

Frank couldn't tell. His own emotions were catching up with him – suddenly and brutally – and he was powerless against them.

Everything had been for Joe; but, as much as he wanted to, he couldn't keep doing it forever. And he suddenly knew that he couldn't do it any more. At least, he couldn't do it today.

He was human – and he had his own pain to deal with; something that he had been fighting off for far too long.

They were burying his mom today.

_Focus on the living. _He tried to remind himself of his own mantra.

But his mom wasn't living – and this day was all about her. He'd even thought about what he might say; the eulogy proffered to him – though he had yet to totally commit to it:

_White sky, over the hemlocks bowed with snow,  
Saw you not at the beginning of evening the antlered buck and his doe  
Standing in the apple orchard? I saw them. I saw them suddenly go,  
Tails up, with long leaps lovely and slow,  
Over the stone wall into the wood of hemlocks bowed with snow… *_

It might have seemed inappropriate to some – but not to him; because it was about death and it was about those left behind.

Frank's fingers crushed into Joe's arms – even as he crushed his eyes shut.

True and utter grief hit him with the force of a sledgehammer and he was powerless beneath the weight of it.

He fell into Joe, abruptly releasing him and literally collapsing almost bonelessly against him. A part of him felt selfish for dumping this on Joe at such a time; a time equally – if not more so – traumatic for his kid brother. But he couldn't help it.

He couldn't help himself, because he barely had a coherent thought left in his head.

He gasped in a sob and tears gushed out at the exact same moment. And, suddenly, Frank could barely breathe. He gasped and cried and floundered – hiccoughing in breaths that were dispelled as quickly as he could snatch them.

Frank Hardy never hyperventilated – but he was on the verge of doing just that right now.

Then strong arms wrapped themselves around him. One hand rubbed his back and the other stroked his hair – and all the while, soothing words were whispered in his ear.

It calmed him and he took a deep breath – finally starting to win the battle over his emotions.

Guilt gnawed in his gut as he realised that it was Joe who had so soothed him – when he was the one meant to be offering comfort. It wasn't just because he was the eldest. It was because of what his brother had been through – and because of the fear he had so hesitantly voiced.

Instead of offering reassurance and support, Frank had chosen the most inopportune time to succumb to his own grief – and his own fear of what this day had in store.

Joe had said the words aloud – but Frank shared the exact same sentiment: he didn't know if he was capable of watching his mother being laid to rest; of finally closing the door and accepting that he'd lost her. Even though he'd briefly seen her in the morgue at the hospital, with what had subsequently happened he hadn't had the chance to fully process the fact.

It was catching up with him with a vengeance – and he wasn't at all sure he knew how to deal with it. But he did know he wasn't strong enough to get Joe through it; not if he couldn't even help himself.

He took a deep breath, then swallowed hard – and pulled away far enough to look at Joe:

"I'm sorry," he whispered, hoarsely. But he still couldn't stop his tears. They careened down his cheeks, in spite of his best efforts. It was as though his eyes had a will of their own.

"It's going to be impossible," he continued. And, somehow, now he was cradling Joe – when seconds before their roles had been reversed. "And I don't want to do it! I don't want you to have to do it!" He sighed and shook his head and his next words were spoken on a whisper: "But we have to."

Frank looked away, unable to stand the raw pain his words invoked in Joe's expressive eyes. He hated himself for what he was feeling, but he couldn't help it. He could still feel his heart pounding unnaturally quickly – and his eyes stung with the ongoing battle of trying to keep his tears at bay.

"We have to." he murmured again, gently rubbing his brother's arm – but the words were intended more for himself than they were for Joe. He was feeling lost and scared and almost crippled by the depths of his emotion – and he didn't know how to deal with it.

It was almost impossible for him to admit it – even to himself – but he needed Joe right now. But it was also impossible to ask for the help he craved.

Joe didn't need his emotional baggage dumped on top of everything he was already trying to deal with.

As if to give credence to that thought, Joe's voice – muffled against his shoulder – floated up to him: "I don't want her to be gone."

Frank sighed. That was a sentiment he could totally relate to – no matter how futile and even infantile it might be.

"I know," he whispered.

Joe shifted slightly, so when he next spoke his voice was more audible: "I mean, I just… I keep thinking about stupid stuff…"

"Like what?" Frank asked, twisting his head to look down at his brother. He didn't think Joe would classify any feelings of guilt, or anything he'd gone through with Houghton, as 'stupid stuff' so he was curious as to what was providing such a welcome distraction.

"I was remembering the first time dad let us go on stakeout on our own – and mom made us sandwiches and gave us a thermos."

Frank chuckled softly, as he shared the memory.

"And I told her that we weren't going on a boy-scout camping trip…" Joe continued, his eyes growing misty and distant. "But she insisted. Then, every time we had a stakeout, she did the same thing: roast beef sandwiches and a thermos of hot chocolate. Always the same. It was like a ritual…"

"I remember," Frank mused. "And I remember how she'd always wait up for us, no matter how late we got home. She must have been so worried."

And Joe sighed; relaxed against him. "But she was so proud, as well. I remember when we cracked our first case – and she didn't want to admit it, but she was proud of us. She didn't stop smiling for days." Joe had been smiling as he spoke, but he suddenly sobered: "It must have been hard for her."

"Yeah. Yeah, it must have been." Frank tightened his hold on his brother, determined not to let this trip down memory lane descend into complete melancholy. "But she never once said that she didn't want us following in dad's footsteps – and she never, ever tried to discourage us – no matter what we did." He let out a brief chuckle. "Like the time you decided to try out your fingerprinting skills all over mom and dad's bedroom."

"Yeah." Joe shook his head ruefully, seeming to snap out of his fugue as he let Frank's memory transport him back in time. "Man, I thought I was going to get grounded forever over that."

"You're not the only one." Frank laughed. "It wouldn't have been so bad if you'd at least tried to clean it up."

"That's what mom said. But later on, she was really impressed when I showed her how different all the fingerprints were."

"And there's that pride again," Frank smiled. "Hey, do you remember how she helped us make our first disguises – and showed us how to use make-up; how she laughed when we said it was too girly…"

Once they had started, more memories came easily to the brothers – and they spent a while indulging in fond reminiscence.

There was nothing profound or earth-shattering about them – they were just simple moments snatched out of time: moments that captured everything they loved about their mom; moments that simply made Laura Hardy who she was.

And, as was bound, there were further tears from both of them but there were also smiles and laughter and deep, deep warmth.

For Frank, it felt almost healing – as it helped him reconcile to his miniature breakdown, which had come at the most inopportune of times.

He knew that it was also benefiting Joe because, though the shadows were still there, Frank could definitely see a hint of the light that had once encapsulated his brother's personality.

A complete cliché of a thought flitted across his mind – and he inwardly winced at how corny it sounded, even just in his head: _his mother was helping Joe even from beyond the grave._

He never even considered saying it out loud because, as swiftly as that thought hit him, his infernal logic kicked right in after it: _mom isn't even in her grave._

And he was forcibly reminded of the sad duty they still had to fulfil that day.

With a sigh, Frank pulled slightly away from Joe and looked him in the eyes.

It was as though his brother read his mind – because the light was extinguished and the shadows regained control. And it broke Frank's heart.

"Listen, Joe," Frank said, seeking the right thing to say; seeking a way to recapture _something_ of what they had just shared. A hint of inspiration came to him and he prayed it would be enough: "I think… I think we really should say goodbye to mom…" It was hard not to look away from those desolate blue eyes, but Frank somehow found the strength. "But even as we do say goodbye, why don't we… Why don't we take the chance to say thank you to her, as well?"

Frank held his breath, not knowing if he had helped or harmed. Then Joe nodded. It was slow and hesitant – but the brothers maintained eye contact and the agreement was reached.

Even if they were both too blinded by tears to see it completely clearly.

TBC

* _From 'The Buck in the Snow' by Edna St. Vincent Millay_


	63. Chapter 63

Well, here it is: the last chapter! There were times when I thought I'd never type those two little words 'The End' – so thank you to everyone who has reviewed, PMed, or emailed. Thanks also for adding me to your favourites and alerts.

And finally, thanks for just reading. I hope you have all enjoyed it.

It has been one heck of a ride for me.

Kindest regards,

Helen

BLAME

Three hours later, the brothers sat side by side on a church pew. Though they had both wanted to sit quietly at the back, it was expected for them to be on the front row – and so that was where they were.

Frank sat on Joe's right hand side – so close that their shoulders and thighs touched. It was all he could offer – the physical support – because now was not the time for words.

The funeral service was about to begin.

"_God's love and power extend over all creation. Every life, including our own, is precious to God. Christians have always believed that there is hope in death as in life, and that there is new life in Christ over death." _

The words faded out as Frank leant in closer to Joe – seeking comfort, rather than trying to offer it. Unconsciously, he slipped an arm around Joe's shoulders.

"_We have come here today to remember before God our sister Laura; to give thanks for her life; to commend her to God our merciful redeemer and judge; to commit her body to be buried, and to comfort one another in our grief."_

The first tears stung Frank's eyes and, unwittingly, he pulled Joe even closer. He dared a glance towards his brother – anxious to see how he was holding up, when he himself was on the verge of breaking down.

Joe's head was bowed, but it didn't seem like guilt was dictating his actions. To Frank's practised eye, it looked like his brother was quietly grieving. He also distantly noted that Joe's left hand was firmly grasped in both of Fenton's – and that Joe wasn't trying to pull away.

It gave him comfort and it also gave him the freedom to give in to his grief.

A prayer was said:

"_Almighty God, you judge us with infinite mercy and justice and love everything you have made.  
In your mercy turn the darkness of death into the dawn of new life, and the sorrow of parting into the joy of heaven;  
through our Saviour, Jesus Christ."_

And Frank intoned _'Amen'_ along with the rest of the congregation.

But his voice was shaky – and didn't sound like him, even to his own ears. He looked down, furiously trying to blink back tears.

The church was full to overflowing and it seemed like the whole of Bayport had turned out to say goodbye to his mom. Breaking down in private was one thing – but he wasn't about to do it so publicly; no matter how good his reasons might have been.

Snatching hold of Joe's free hand, he gave it an encouraging squeeze – and was rewarded by a fleeting meeting of eyes.

Then the moment was broken as they were directed to stand and the first hymn was sung:

"_Abide with me; fast falls the eventide;  
The darkness deepens; Lord with me abide."_

Frank tried to sing, but his voice was wavering and ugly. He ended up just mouthing the words, as tears coursed down his cheeks.

There was no way he would be saying the words to _'The Buck in the Snow'_ – so carefully rehearsed – but he held them in his head; and in his heart. And he would share them with his mom some other time.

* * *

Fenton barely heard a word of the service. His eyes were fixated on the cherry wood coffin in front of him; in which his wife lay.

His jaw was clenched so firmly shut that he could feel a muscle twitching sporadically in his cheek, as he strove to maintain control. And he did so for the exact same reasons Frank did: he didn't want to break down in front of so many relative strangers.

A part of him wished he'd opted for a more private service – restricted to just family and close friends – but a bigger part of him knew why he hadn't taken that option.

Laura had been a familiar face throughout Bayport – and not just because her husband was a World-renowned Private Investigator. She had her own interests, her own hobbies and her own life.

She'd made friends through the neighbourhood, through the school, through the church, through the various charities she volunteered for – and just through being the approachable, friendly woman she was.

And when he'd thought of having a quiet service, he was forced to ask himself one simple question: What right did he have to dictate who was allowed to show their love for Laura?

But now he was regretting that choice, as voices sang disharmoniously around him. He wanted to grieve but couldn't – not in front of all of these people, some of whom he barely recognised. To them, if only in his head, he was Fenton Hardy PI – so he had to live up to that role.

It was irrational, but he couldn't help feeling that way. Laura had more than once called him her superhero – and maybe she'd described him as such to others. And he couldn't let her down.

It was the last thing he could do for her.

So, for her, he tried to stay strong; to hold onto his stoicism – and, in silent grief, he tried to give as much support as he could to his sons.

Their sons.

* * *

Joe stared at the floor, because he didn't know where else to look. He couldn't look at the coffin for the simple reason of the picture that sat atop it.

Smiling, vibrant and beautiful – it wasn't exactly the same picture of his mom that Houghton had tormented him with, but it was close enough.

He'd glanced at it only once, but that was enough to trigger the flashbacks: _the picture, face down on the floor of his cell; hugging it desperately to his chest; lying torn and crumpled on the ground…_

But he had his dad on one side and his brother on the other – and that memory was nothing more than a nightmare. At least, that was what he tried to tell himself – and then he felt hands tighten on his, as though his mind had been read.

He squeezed his eyes shut and then whispered _'Amen'_ when the service demanded it of him. A moment later and he was on his feet – pulled upright by the grips on his hands, more than any conscious move on his part.

He was still battling his flashback and trying to fight down resurging feelings of guilt. He looked at the coffin; looked at her picture. He couldn't do this.

Joe glanced furtively around him as voices began to sing, but there was no easy escape for him – the church was packed so full it had to be a fire hazard – so he sought help in the only way he could: clenching his fists as tightly as possible and almost crushing the hands that still held his.

They seemed to tighten in response; though – aside from a fleeting glance from Frank – both his dad and his brother seemed too caught up in their own grief. But, in a strange way, their sadness gave him strength: showed him that he wasn't weak just because he mourned.

Then the hymn ended and they sank back down into their seats.

Joe swallowed hard. He didn't know how he was feeling – how he was _supposed_ to be feeling. But Frank's arm was around his shoulders; Frank's hand held tightly onto his…

It meant something.

It meant there was no blame. It meant he was free to let go – but then he looked at the Minister and his heart almost stopped. The service was clearly over – and now it was time for the burial.

The clergyman didn't even look at Joe – he was looking at their dad and the question was asked: "Are you ready?"

Five other men stood: Chief Collig, Con Riley, Sam Radley and both Biff Hooper and Chet Morton's dads. They – along with Fenton – were the pall bearers; charged with carrying Laura Hardy from the church to her grave.

"I want to do it." The words were blurted out almost without thought and, at the shocked looks aimed in his direction, Joe turned – as ever – to Frank. "I have to…"he begged.

Frank smiled grimly back at him. Everything that could go wrong flashed through his head, but even the worst case scenario – of Joe trembling so hard that they dropped the coffin – couldn't bring him to deny his brother the request: "We both have to," he agreed.

* * *

It was Biff and Chet's fathers who graciously stepped to one side – taking a moment to shake both brothers' hands, before returning to the pews.

There was a brief, awkward moment when the pall bearers approached the casket – and Frank and Joe, completely unprepared, could only stand and look at it. Then their dad clamped his arms around both of their shoulders.

"She would be so proud of you…" he whispered. "So moved by this…" He squeezed his eyes shut, momentarily. "Thank you."

Then the funeral dirge began to play and Frank and Joe exchanged one last glance. Then Frank walked around to the left side of the coffin, whilst Joe remained on the right.

Fenton and Chief Collig had the front of the casket and the brothers were directly behind them, with Con and Sam bringing up the rear.

It was hard for them both – to walk in time and in step, when they'd had absolutely no preparation. But, for both of them, it was a welcome distraction.

For that short walk, they thought about nothing other than the next half-step; about doing it right and not faltering or stumbling at all. And they succeeded.

That, in itself, gave them both a sense of accomplishment – that they had done _something _for her that day.

As they laid the casket down, their eyes met. Joe offered a small smile and Frank nodded back at him.

They clasped hands as the service continued:

_We have entrusted our sister Laura to God's mercy,  
and we now commit her body to the ground:  
earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust…_

The words continued until the service was over and then silence reigned. Nobody made a move to go home – and the silence stretched towards uncomfortable.

The Minister tried: "I believe the Morton's have opened their home to everyone who'd like to take some time to mourn Laura – and to celebrate her life…"

Still no-one moved – and it felt like they all might just keep standing there forever. Fenton's head was bowed and Frank's eyes were squeezed shut.

But Joe swallowed heavily and then tried to speak: "I think…" He hated how weak his voice sounded, so he cleared his throat and tried again: "I think I'd like that." He felt disbelieving eyes turn to stare at him and so elucidated: "I like the idea of celebrating her life…"

Suddenly, he was caught in a warm embrace – and it was both his dad and his brother who held him.

Tears stung his eyes – but he wasn't quite finished yet. Turning blindly, his hands ripped a flower from the nearest wreath.

He didn't care what flower it was; didn't care what tribute he'd ruined. He had to do this.

Walking forwards, he dropped a white rose into his mother's grave. There were two words he had to say: "Thanks, mom."

He felt his dad and Frank as they walked up behind them. He welcomed their support.

But he couldn't feel the look that was exchanged behind his back; the look that said: _'We won. Houghton couldn't beat him.'_ But which also said: _'We'll never speak of that tape. NEVER! It's over.'_

He would never know of those things, as far as Frank and Fenton were concerned.

Joe didn't ask any questions – he didn't know better than to ask such questions. In his head, it had been over the moment Frank had broken through his walls and convinced him that he was not to blame.

And he was comforted, beyond belief, by the presence of his family as he said his final goodbye to his mom.

In his head, in his heart, it was over.

And he knew he was not to blame.

THE END

_Yes, there are loose ends – but I believe that Real Life rarely wraps itself up in a neat little bow._

_And I thought that was an apt ending for this particular story._

_;-)_

_Helen_


End file.
